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Living Language
Living Memory
Essays on the Works ofToni Morrison

Shands & Grillo Mikrut

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Södertörns högskola
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SE-141 89 Huddinge

Living Language Living Memory

In 1993 Toni Morrison was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. The
Nobel committee described her work as “characterized by visionary
force and poetic import [that] gives life to an essential aspect ofAmerican reality.”
Twenty years later, a group of scholars met in Stockholm tocommemorate and celebrate Morrison’s award, and just as importantly,
to critically engage the wealth of scholarship that has sprung up
around Morrison’s work—both the six novels recognized by the Nobel
committee and those works of fiction and criticism published in thetwo decades afterwards.
The essays in this collection implicitly and explicitly take up
Morrison’s clarion call to vivify language. They engage her words byelaborating on their meaning, offering readings of her literary texts
that highlight their intertextuality, their proliferating conversations
with other texts and contexts, and even other languages. In some,Morrison’s words give life to authors no longer with us, in others weare encouraged to resituate her writing in unfamiliar contexts in orderto highlight the multiplicity of meanings generated by her work. The
essays offer rich testimony to the life-giving properties of Morrison’s
language and seek to contribute to the ongoing afterlife of her work byadding to the scholarly conversations animated by her extraordinary
literary career.

4

Edited by		

Kerstin W Shands
Giulia Grillo Mikrut		ENGLISH STUDIES 4

Living Language
Living Memory
Essays on the Works ofToni Morrison

Edited by		

Kerstin W Shands
Giulia Grillo Mikrut		ENGLISH STUDIES 4

Södertörns högskola 2014

© 2014 Kerstin W. Shands and Södertörns högskola.
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced, by any process or technique,without the express written consent of the publisher.
Cover photo: Hobcaw Barony, South Carolina,
by Kerstin W. Shands
Cover design: Jonathan Robson
Layout: Per Lindblom & Jonathan Robson
First published in 2014
Printed in Sweden by Elanders
English Studies 4
ISSN: 1651-4165
ISBN: 978-91-86069-95-7

Contents

Introduction

5

Andrea Sillis
Forms of Time and Typologies of Culture:
Language, Time, and Identity in the Workof Toni Morrison

15

Lynn Penrod
Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye:
Lost and Found in Translation

33

Sangita Rayamajhi
Teaching Toni Morrison to a Culturally
Diverse Class: Experiences from Bangladesh

45

Anna Iatsenko
Bodies, Music, and Embodied Cognitionin Toni Morrison’s Fictional Works

55

Giulia Grillo Mikrut“You your best thing, Sethe. You are”:
African American Maternal Experience inToni Morrison’s Beloved

67

Lucy Buzacott
The Black Mother as Murderess:
William Faulkner’s Requiem for a Nun
and Toni Morrison’s Beloved

85

Hilary Emmett
A Valediction Forbidding Mo’nin?:
Beloved Revisited95

Tuire Valkeakari
After Eden: Constructs of Home, House,
and Racial Difference in Toni Morrison’s A Mercy

107

Aoi Mori
Rethinking Race Matters

127

Laura Castor“This house is strange”: Digging for American
Memory of Trauma, or Healing the “Social”
in Toni Morrison’s Home

139

Notes on Contributors

151Introduction

In 1993 Toni Morrison was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. On
awarding the prize the Nobel committee described her work as “characterized by visionary force and poetic import [that] gives life to an essential
aspect of American reality” (Nobel website). Twenty years later, in October
2013, a group of scholars met in Stockholm to commemorate and celebrate
Morrison’s award, and just as importantly, to critically engage the wealth ofscholarship that has sprung up around Morrison’s work—both the six
novels recognized by the Nobel committee and those works of fiction andcriticism published in the two decades afterwards.
The papers delivered at this symposium revealed certainly the ongoing“poetic import” of Morrison’s work, yet what they illustrated most compellingly was that there is no one “essential aspect of American reality” towhich Morrison’s words give voice. Her novels engage contexts and questions ranging from the nature of servitude in the colonial period to thepoetics and politics of Harlem in the Jazz Age, from explorations of the classdifferences that cut across relations between African American individuals
and communities to the physical and psychological violence that constituted segregation and Jim Crow. Indeed, it is difficult to identify an“American reality” into which Morrison has not made an exact and searing
intervention; even as her novels focus intimately on the lives of African
Americans, white Americans are interpellated equally by the ways in which
her explorations reveal the operations of whiteness—the disavowals of
equality and the miscarriages of justice that went into its creation and maintenance. Moreover, as the international perspective of many of the participants in the symposium demonstrated, Morrison’s account of the historyof “race” is not even limited to American realities.
At the heart of Morrison’s project lies the conviction that acts oflanguage constitute lived realities and thus that language can shape andchange these realities as a force of both healing and harm. The lecture she

5

LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

gave on accepting the Nobel Prize takes language as its subject in order tooffer a compelling indictment of “dead” language that disables and censors,
maintains an unjust status quo and, worse, the vampiric languages ofsexism, racism, and “theism” that exploit vulnerability and foster division.
Such language euphemizes state-sanctioned violence, silences dissent, andrationalizes dominion of one group over another. Evoking the polyphony oflanguage that came about as a result of the collapse of the Tower of Babel,
she goes on to celebrate the limitless reaching of language towards theineffable—language constantly expands the boundaries of what is possible
and imaginable. But in the same vein, language can never fully encapsulate
the collective trauma of slavery or genocide, nor can it ever totalize individual experiences of violence or loss and it should not aspire to. Yet the
striving after such expression can bring about the confrontation with theineffable necessary for our own comprehension of the nature of trauma.
Language, then, for Morrison must be dynamic, must evolve. Narrative, shedeclaims, must radically bring new subjectivities into being, even in the very
moment of its own creation. In short, language must live.
Taking Morrison’s Nobel lecture as a point of departure, Andrea Sillis’
essay, “Forms of Time and Typologies of Culture in the Work of Toni
Morrison,” argues that Morrison’s conceptualization of language itself, andher ideas about the politics of identity formation, are organized by means ofa complex network of temporal oppositions. Through close analysis of
Morrison’s “Nobel Lecture,” Sillis demonstrates that language is a mediumthat is naturally oriented towards the future through both its epistemological function and the creativity of the linguistic imagination. Moreover,this connection between language and the future is inherently politicizedsince Morrison clearly identifies the open-ended temporality of creative
language with freedom of expression. Conversely, she correlates any form ofcensorship, dogma or political oppression with the temporality of closure,stasis and stagnation, and explicitly locates racism within the retrograde
temporal framework she associates with oppressive forms of language.
Moving outwards from the lecture, Sillis goes on to propose that Morrison
resists the idea that white America’s historical involvement in slavery was atemporary ethical aberration. She suggests rather that its will to dominancestems from a presumption of cultural supremacy that is firmly rooted inWestern models of epistemology. This negative assessment is diametrically
opposed to Morrison’s valorization of the epistemological foundations ofblack language and culture, which is clearly identified with an interlocativemodel of African American language and aesthetics, informed, in turn, by6

INTRODUCTION

their origins in oral traditions. Morrison expressly describes this model as
incorporating folk-cultural attitudes towards knowledge and identity, which
naturally accommodate ambiguity and tolerate difference. In view of thiscelebration of the linguistic dynamism of orality, Sillis proposes that
Morrison draws on insights provided by the implicit temporal ordering of her
philosophy of language to pinpoint the critical sources of disparities between“black” and “white” language practices, and their associated perceptions ofidentity. For Morrison, African American discourse “lives” because of its
ability to adapt and accommodate difference.
Chapter two turns to French-language versions of Morrison’s first novel
to illustrate the ways in which her language lives on in translation. In “ToniMorrison’s The Bluest Eye: Lost and Found in Translation” Lynn Penrod
considers a critical question that is often overlooked by literary scholars: thefate of a particular text, or indeed, of a particular author’s entire body ofwork, when it is translated. Nobel Prize laureates in literature have longprovided lively debates worldwide on this issue. The market in literarytranslation is dominated by English speakers and readers desperately
seeking translations of texts originally published in unfamiliar languages.
Literary translators work feverishly to meet publishers’ deadlines, and whilesome readers and reviewers may be left pondering the accuracy of theirwork, demand has been met and most readers are satisfied. Yet we seldom
worry about the fate of an English-language Nobel Prize winner whose
works will be translated or re-translated into untold numbers of languages
once the award is announced. Penrod asks, therefore: So what do we mean
when we speak of “Toni Morrison in translation?” What actually happens to
the work of any author as it crosses not only linguistic borders but entire
cultural frontiers as well? How do the theory and practice of “translating”
Toni Morrison’s novels affect Morrison criticism, analysis, reputation, or
pedagogy? Penrod takes as her case study for thinking through thesequestions the French version of Morrison’s first novel, The Bluest Eye,translated as L’oeil le plus bleu by Jean Guiloineau and published in Paris by
Christian Bourgois Editeur in 1994. Using Roman Jakobson’s well-known
three levels of translational competence—intralingual, interlingual, andintersemiotic—Penrod analyzes the particular challenges this novel poses tothe literary translator concluding that the accurate translation of Morrison’s
novel requires a variation on Jakobson’s intersemiotic level: a competencethat she terms inter- or trans-cultural competence.
Chapter three demonstrates the remarkable adaptability of Morrison’s
literary imagination. “Teaching Toni Morrison to a Culturally Diverse
7

LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORYClass” recounts Sangita Rayamajhi’s experiences of teaching western andnon-western fiction at The Asian University for Women in Bangladesh.
This university is a place where the histories and experiences of collective
memory and social, structural, and political inequality are constantly being
redefined. The multiculturalism of the classroom is nevertheless marked bydifferent histories of religious dogmatism, and it is into this setting that
Rayamajhi introduces Morrison through her first novel, The Bluest Eye.
Despite her fears that students would find this historically and culturally
laden text inaccessible, her students were not only able to understand thetext’s subtlety and nuance but were able to transfer the issues it explores outof their western context and into an Asian one. Students recognized andunderstood Morrison’s depiction of discrimination, isolation, hierarchy,
race, and class in relation to women’s bodies under patriarchy and were able
to make sense of the multiple structures of inequality she represents,
relating them to issues of caste, class, untouchability, patriarchy, women,
and to the stratification in the cultures of South Asia, South East Asia andEast Asia.
Bodies are, of course, central to Morrison’s work from Pecola Breedlove’s neglected and abused body, to Sethe’s “chokecherry” tree of scars, toFlorens’ feet that are finally conditioned to be tough like cedar. She writes ofthe body in visceral ways that remind us—as the young women of the Asian
University show us—of our own somatic fragility. In “Bodies, Music, andEmbodied Cognition in Toni Morrison’s Fictional Works” Anna Iatsenko
illustrates the ways in which Morrison uses the body to tell stories thattranscend fictional ontology to communicate meaning on a number oflevels. In some works, the bodies of characters act as traces of the history ofslavery by quite literally revealing the inscriptions of its trauma. In others,
bodies oscillate between the transcendent and the immanent to reveal themechanisms of embodied memory. Indeed, the intricacy with which
Morrison works on and with bodies reveals the complexity of corporeality
and the centrality of the body to our perception of and interaction with theworld. Iatsenko engages Morrison’s use of the body in order to discuss
perception from a phenomenological point of view. As Maurice MerlauPonty’s work has suggested, the body is the primary vehicle of interaction
with and understanding of the world. This postulate, which works against
Cartesian logic, has more recently been confirmed by a number of neuroscientific studies that have been able to map out the neurological pathwaysof cognition. However, as Iatsenko argues, Morrison’s work provides a
space where the text embodies both voices and music, complicating8

INTRODUCTION

Merleau-Ponty’s paradigm of embodied cognition by introducing theimportance of the domain of sound perception. Morrison’s use of music,
song and voice, deeply rooted in African-American traditional aesthetic
forms, exceeds the mere presence of musical references in her novels.
Indeed, through the use of music in her fiction, Morrison points to the factthat mechanisms of embodied consciousness are also deeply connected tomusic as is revealed by the interplay between form and content in her work.
Language lives through its relationship to the body—the way it is heard andthe way it is felt.
Voice and embodiment are equally central to chapter five, “African
American Maternal Experience in Toni Morrison’s Beloved.” In this essay,
Giulia Grillo Mikrut discusses the representation of the African American
female body in Morrison’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel to show how thisrepresentation tracks the process of self-actualization of the female characters. Self-actualisation is here defined as the process by which the female
characters achieve a fully realized subjectivity and obtain an audible voice inthe societies in which they live. In Beloved, it is the initially fragmented
body that ultimately expresses the coherent development of the female
mind, spirit, and voice. This chapter considers the patterns and devices
chosen by Morrison to show the African American female body as a key
factor in the depiction of African American women’s subjectivity. At the
beginning of the novel, women’s bodies are “fragmented” in the same waythat their voices are disjointed and fractured. For different reasons and inorder to survive, these characters must move on from this fragmentation byembarking on a journey towards self-actualisation. Grillo Mikrut analyzes
how Morrison employs the motif of the development of the maternal bodyand female voice with the aim of illustrating these women’s eventual claim
to agency in society. Voice and body are inseparable in achieving fully
realized subjectivity. Demonstrating that black women’s voices and bodies
are inaudible and invisible at the beginning of the novel, this chapter shows
how female characters move from marginalization and fragmentation tocentrality and wholeness, eventually reaching self-actualization.
Black women’s bodies have often been overdetermined by their relationship to maternity. As powerless slave mothers in the nineteenth century
and as outraged victims of ongoing violence against their outlawed malechildren in the twenty-first, the African-American mother is a figure oftrauma. Yet Morrison’s imagination of this figure does not less us categorize
her so reductively. Hence, in chapter six, “The Black Mother as Murderess:
William Faulkner’s Requiem for a Nun and Toni Morrison’s Beloved,” Lucy
9

LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

Buzacott considers the characters of Nancy Mannigoe in William Faulkner’s
1950 novel Requiem for a Nun and Sethe in Toni Morrison’s 1987 novel
Beloved as versions of the black mother as murderess. Buzacott explores
how both Nancy and Sethe complicate received versions of black maternity
through an act of violent maternal potency. Both Nancy and Sethe ultimately kill a child in their care, but while Sethe murders her own child,
Nancy is a mammy, a maternal surrogate, and the child she kills is not her
own but the infant child of her white employee. While both murders speak
to the maternal suffering of black women during and after slavery, whatchanges when the murdering mother is not a mother, but a mammy and thechild is not black but white? Buzacott examines how Nancy Mannigoe acts
as both mammy and monster within the text of Requiem and explores theways in which her representation differs from Morrison’s Sethe and how
both figures speak to the problems of race, gender, sexuality, and maternity
in the post-War American South. In a dynamic reversal of literary historicalchronology, Buzacott’s reading of Beloved reanimates and revises ourunderstanding of Faulkner’s much earlier text.
Once again taking up the representation of outranged maternity in
Morrison’s work chapter seven, “A Valediction Forbidding Mo’nin: Melancholic Community in Toni Morrison’s Beloved,” looks beyond the maternal
melodrama that dominates scholarship on Beloved and explores thehitherto under-analyzed relationship between sisters Beloved and Denver.
As Hilary Emmett notes, in the closing pages of the novel, Paul D asks
Denver, “You think she sure ’nough your sister?” Denver replies, “At times.
At times I think she was—more” (266). Emmett argues that Denver’s
understanding of Beloved as her sister, and as signifying something “more”
is revealing in that it raises the question of what sisterhood might havemeant in the immediate aftermath of slavery’s abolition. It gestures tosisterhood’s excess, its unconfineable significance in United States’ history.
The something “more” that Beloved embodies is commonly understood as
the uncontainability of the traumatic memory of slavery, the eternallyrecurring “rememory” which cannot be kept at bay, and as such, inhibits thefree and forward movement of the community of former slaves. This
chapter extends this idea of excess into an account of the limits of sisterhood in American political life both during the period of Reconstruction inwhich the novel is set, and also, speculatively, into the 1980s when the novel
was written. As Morrison herself has emphasized, Beloved was written with
the intention of revealing what lay behind what Lydia Maria Child termed
the “veil” drawn over the most “monstrous features” of slavery. Despite
10

INTRODUCTION

Child’s rhetoric, the alliance forged between “conscientious and reflecting[white] women at the North” and their “sisters in bondage” was predicatedon the slave narrator’s elision of details that might prove too indelicate forwhite women’s ears. The rhetoric of sisterhood was deployed by abolitionist
movements in both Britain and America, presumably in order both to insist
upon the common humanity of slaves, and to harness the momentum of theabolitionist cause to movements calling for women’s rights—an alliancethat would cause no little consternation among advocates of the cause of
women’s suffrage. Emmett shows that a political community based on an
ideal of sisterhood is necessarily predicated on the expulsion of thetraumatized and traumatizing sister, and is undeniably melancholic.
Tuire Valkeakari turns similarly to the uneasy alliances between black
and white women in chapter eight, “After Eden: Constructs of Home,
House, and Racial Difference in Toni Morrison’s A Mercy.” A Mercy,
Valkeakari writes, can be viewed through the related lenses of movement,
migration, dislocation, and journeying. Morrison has written about “home”
throughout her career—that is, about domiciles and families, as well as
about places of belonging in a more abstract and geopolitical sense. Whilescholars have previously placed Morrison’s aptly titled 1997 essay “Home”
in dialogue with Paradise, this chapter argues that her reflections in “Home”
are extremely relevant to A Mercy, too: such pivotal themes and motifs ofMorrison’s essay as the trope of Eden, constructs of home (what she in“Home” calls “a radical distinction between the metaphor of house and themetaphor of home”) and early colonial American racial formations all playsignificant roles in her ninth novel, whose present action is set in 1690.
Morrison embeds the trope of Eden in A Mercy by casting the Anglo-Dutch
settler Jacob Vaark as an “American Adam” and by asking, in the process,who has the right to belong in America and call it “home.” Where Leo Marxfamously put “the machine in the garden [of Eden/America],” Morrison, inturn, puts race—in addition to social class—in the garden. Thus, she places
the trope of the American Adam in dialogue with race, racialization, andracism and, in so doing, urges us to examine the role that racial formations
played in American social relations even prior to the United States’ nationhood. This novel, published in 2008 in the lead-up to the election of Barack
Obama as the first African American president of the United States thus
looks backward in order to engage the present, and tentatively imagine afuture. For Morrison, the myth of “racial” difference, and therefore racialhierarchy can only be dismantled by a return to a time before which thissocial construct exerted a stranglehold on communal life.
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LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

Aoi Mori links Morrison’s representation of a “pre-racial” America in A
Mercy explicitly to contemporary concerns regarding race by reading thenovel alongside Morrison’s earlier critical analysis of race in America, Race
Matters. Barack Obama’s political success signifies to some that we live in a“post-racial” era, an age in which race is no longer a barrier to material
success and social significance. Yet, for Morrison, the twinned specters ofrace and racism continue to haunt American society. Morrison described
A Mercy as an attempt to “remove race from slavery.” Mori’s chapter
explores how the concept of race is constructed in Vaark’s household andthen in American society by examining the historical background embedded in A Mercy and referring to some of Morrison’s other works, such as
The Bluest Eye, “Home,” Playing in the Dark, and Desdemona, which also
scrutinize race issues. Finally, Mori points to the skillful strategy used byMorrison to deconstruct racial hierarchies and thereby recover the
narratives of those relegated to the periphery of society.
Home and nationhood are again twinned concerns in Morrison’s mostrecent novel, Home. In “This house is strange”: Digging for American
Memory of Trauma, or Healing the “Social” in Toni Morrison’s “Home,”
Laura Castor reveals the way this novel asks us to question the social,political, and personal illusions of “America.” The notion of America as a“home” free from the weight of history and fertile ground for numerous
opportunities for self-invention is revealed to be illusory. As readers havecome to expect from Morrison, the seemingly simple notion of ‘home’ hasmultiple meanings, both cultural and personal. Morrison’s shifting
narrative perspectives on the stories of Cee and Frank lay bare even themost hidden violence of Jim Crow, but also open spaces for agency andhealing—healing that honors, rather than seeks to erase scars. More
broadly, her narrators’ representations of ‘home’ and ‘homelessness’ provide a fulcrum for the reader to question American collective memory.
Ideas of home may be narrated differently through prisms of age, geography, and historical moment, as well as economies of race, class, andgender inequality. Castor’s analysis of this novel asks: at what cost, and forthe sake of what expanded notions of truth, must her characters mourntheir pasts? In asking and answering this question through her novel, Castor
proposes that Morrison provokes her readers to take more seriously theirown journeys toward greater social awareness.
The essays in this collection implicitly and explicitly take up Morrison’s
clarion call to vivify language. They approach Morrison’s imagined worlds
and non-fiction writings from a variety of disciplinary perspectives, from12

INTRODUCTION

the straight forwardly literary-critical, to the phenomenological and pedagogical. They engage her words by elaborating on their meaning, offering
readings of her literary texts that highlight their intertextuality, their
proliferating conversations with other texts and contexts, and even otherlanguages. In some, Morrison’s words give life to authors no longer with us,
in others we are encouraged to resituate her writing in unfamiliar contexts
in order to highlight the multiplicity of meanings generated by her work.
The essays offer rich testimony to the life-giving properties of Morrison’s
language and seek to contribute to the ongoing afterlife of her work byadding to the scholarly conversations and debates animated by her
extraordinary literary career.
Kerstin W. Shands and Giulia Grillo Mikrut
Stockholm, May, 201413

Forms of Time and Typologies of Culture:
Language, Time, and Identity in the Work ofToni Morrison

Andrea Sillis
This essay examines the connection between the themes of language, time,and identity in the work of Toni Morrison. It considers, in particular, thecentral role played by time in her critical analyses of the contested fields ofrace and identity, in what she has described as “the wholly racialized societythat is the United States” (Playing xii).
The title of the essay consciously echoes that of Bakhtin’s: “Forms ofTime and the Chronotope in the Novel: Notes toward a Historical Poetics”(Dialogic 84-258). His radically temporalized conceptualization of linguistic
consciousness is encapsulated in the statements that “every entry into thesphere of meaning is accomplished only through the gates of the chronotope;” and that “in the literary artistic chronotope, spatial and temporalindicators are fused into one carefully thought-out, concrete whole. Time,as it were, thickens, takes on flesh, becomes artistically visible” (Dialogic
258; 84). His idea that the “chronotope in literature has an intrinsic genericsignificance” (84-5, emphasis in original), together with his definition of“utterances and their types, that is, speech genres” as “the drive belts fromthe history of society to the history of language” (Speech Genres 65), isparticularly interesting in the context of Morrison’s generic (rather than
genetic) definitions of black identity. Their work is also directly comparable
on account of pronounced similarities in the temporal organization of theirtypological analyses of cultural forms.
The essay does not, however, present a Bakhtinian analysis of Morrison’swork. It argues that her perception of the underlying temporality of
linguistic and cultural forms represents an organic component of her own
cultural, generic, and intellectual perspective. The large body of work which
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LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

she has produced as both a highly acclaimed novelist and a respected literary and cultural critic is entirely permeated by a thoroughly temporalized
lexicon. Close analysis of this thematic preoccupation reveals that she
routinely configures the coincidence between the categories of language,time, and identity in such a way that her ideas about language itself, and thepolitics of identity formation, are organized by means of a complex arrangement of temporal oppositions. This would seem to indicate that the category of time lies at the very center of her thinking about linguistic andcultural forms, and that she perceives a deep structural connection between
temporality and linguistic consciousness itself.
In addition, her skill as a historical novelist is enhanced by a theoreticalinterest in diverse modes of historical perception, and in the role played byhistorical discourse in conditioning perceptions of identity. Indeed, theacuity of her handling of historical time has been recognized in studies byPaul Gilroy and Homi Bhabha, both of which have a particular focus, blackor subaltern identity and temporality. Gilroy, in The Black Atlantic, cites her
work as exemplary of “black writers whose minority modernism can be
defined precisely through its imaginative proximity to forms of terror that
surpass understanding and lead back from contemporary racial violence,
through lynching, towards the temporal and ontological rupture of the
middle passage” (222). Bhabha analyzed Morrison’s representation of historical experience in Beloved extensively in The Location of Culture, andacknowledged that her work had been “formative in [his] thinking on narrative and historical temporality” (ix).
This essay suggests, therefore, that the coherence of Morrison’s work as awhole rests on the foundation of a tightly argued and internally consistentphilosophy of language, which coheres around a highly systematic conceptualization of time. It hopes to demonstrate that this radically temporalized
philosophy of language exerts systemic effects on Morrison’s work as awhole, fundamentally conditioning the conceptual parameters of her wider
engagements with the politics of writing and representation, and significantly facilitating her critical investigations into the relationship of dominance and subordination within which black and white identity politics inAmerica have historically been established and defined.
Morrison’s “Nobel Lecture” provides the main source of textual evidence
used here in support of these ideas. Several factors combine to make thistext exemplify the thesis that her invocations of temporality are symptomatic of a systemic theoretical perspective on language and identity, which

16

FORMS OF TIME AND TYPOLOGIES OF CULTURE - SILLIS

is grounded on her sense of the implicit temporal ordering of cultural andlinguistic forms.
First of all, this lecture presents what is probably Morrison’s mostsustained treatment of her conceptualization of language. In addition, thetext is permeated by a dense metaphorical network of conjoined linguistic
and temporal associations, so that although time is not her overt focus here,
its pervasive sub-textual presence nonetheless exerts a significant influence
over the conceptual and structural organization of the piece as a whole. I
would argue, in fact, that the level of fusion between temporal and linguistic
signifiers she presents here is such that facts about language can also be readas facts about time. The imprint of time therefore appears as a palimpsest
showing through her entire discourse about language.
The Lecture also offers clear evidence in support of the idea that
Morrison perceives a deep structural connection not only between forms of
temporal and linguistic consciousness, but also between the temporality of
linguistic forms and identity formation. More precisely, given that the content of the Lecture is set firmly in the context of post-slavery America, it
clearly incorporates references to the temporal and linguistic modelling that
she adopts to articulate her insights into the radically divergent culturalforms which underpin the construction and ascription of racialized identity
in the USA.
And finally, this functions as something of a hybrid text, occupying aliminal position between critical and creative writing. Consequently, it
allows us to trace the systemic effects of Morrison’s philosophy of language
as she formulates what is simultaneously a creative and critical response to
the task she has described as “trying to come to some terms about 'race’ andwriting” (“Unspeakable” 3).

The Nobel Lecture in Literature
Morrison makes language itself the central theme of her “Nobel Lecture,”and draws together in this short but complex composition all the mainelements which combine to condition her concept of language. However,this statement about her personal and professional relationship with language contains no programmatic or direct statements about her identity
politics, theoretical perspective or philosophical position. Instead, she presents a story, opening her Lecture with a traditional tale in which a group ofchildren approach a blind old woman and ask her to tell them whether the
bird they have in their hands is alive or dead.

17

LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

Morrison states that she chooses to read the bird as language, and as she
imagines the exchange between the old woman and the children, whichdevelops out of the scenario presented in the oral tale, this Lecture quickly
becomes a genuine act of oral narration in its own right. Consequently, oral
narrative itself, as opposed to the print-based discipline of philosophicaldiscourse, becomes the medium through which she chooses to articulate her
philosophy of language.1
Moreover, this is not just a stylistic choice: by adopting this narrative
framework, Morrison immediately dissociates her account of language notjust from the disciplinary conventions of Anglo-American philosophy, butalso from the abstract theoretical framework within which it has traditionally been articulated. This categorical distinction is also signaled by thecontent of the oral tale, which functions to constrain the conceptual
parameters of the theory of language it presents in accordance with theconditions of its specific setting.
For instance, within the context of the oral tale, the blind, old woman
would only know that the bird was alive if she heard it singing, and so themetaphor of the bird for language equates living language with song. Thisestablishes that Morrison’s definition of language is derived from its performative aspect as speech, rather than from its formal aspect as a set ofsemantic units and syntactic rules. It therefore places her concept of language within the personalized and historicized parameters of the utterance,
rather than the explicitly depersonalized and a-temporal parameters ofphilosophical abstraction.
The metaphor of the bird for language is therefore central to Morrison’s
exposition of her conceptualization of language insofar as it encapsulates
the temporal, linguistic, and cultural dualisms which are at the structural
center of this piece. Whilst the image of a bird is commonly made to standfor the concept of language in a general sense, by placing this bird in thehands of these children, Morrison encourages her audience to visualize it as
an actually existent bird with a concrete, corporeal identity of its own,rather than as the notional or disembodied idea of a bird.

1

This brings to mind Barbara Christian’s comment that “people of color have always
theorized—but in forms quite different from the Western form of abstract logic. And I
am inclined to say that our theorizing (and I intentionally use the verb rather than thenoun) is often in narrative forms, in the stories we create, in riddles and proverbs, in theplay with language, since dynamic rather than fixed ideas seem more to our liking”(349).

18

FORMS OF TIME AND TYPOLOGIES OF CULTURE - SILLISThe challenge which the children issue to the old woman to tell themwhether the bird is alive or dead then takes the idea of physical embodimenta little further, since the possibility of mortality which is introduced in thatquestion immediately imports an undeniably existential element into theconcept of language for which the bird stands. Morrison emphasizes thesignificance of the existential aspect of her metaphor still further when shesays that “the question the children put to [the woman] – Is [the bird] living
or dead? – is not unreal because she thinks of language as susceptible todeath, erasure, certainly imperiled and salvageable only by an effort of thewill” (“Nobel” 200).2
The idea that language itself may be susceptible to death enacts a radical
personification of the theory of language so conceived. The existential metaphor forces us to conceptualize language as physically incarnated in subjects
who must be materially embodied in spatio-temporally specific historicalcontexts. This is a theoretical approach, therefore, which programmaticallyconflates the categories of language and identity, whilst also simultaneously
imbuing its concept of language with a very specific form of temporalsensibility. Being fundamentally subject-centered, it invokes not the abstract
temporality of infinite chronological time, but a humanized version of time
which is bounded by consciousness of death and regulated by memory
rather than the clock; a form of time, in fact, which is intimately bound up
with the consciousness of personal identity.
The existential dualism which is inherent in the opposition between lifeand death goes on to structure the metaphorical organization of theconceptual content of the entire Lecture, thereby playing an important rolein facilitating the articulation of the distinctive philosophy of language
which animates Morrison’s work as a whole. In addition, this trope allows
her to present living and dead language as two distinct forms of linguistic
consciousness, each with their own temporal signature, and each embodying an entire cultural and philosophical perspective, or episteme, in its own
right. Ultimately, therefore, the temporal opposition which is central to themetaphor of the living-or-dead bird serves to underpin the typological analysis of cultural forms which emerges as the Lecture progresses.
Morrison consistently characterizes living language as being naturally
oriented towards the future, and this temporal signature is woven into all
the statements about living language which run through the Lecture. For2

All further references in this section are to the “Nobel Lecture,” unless identified
otherwise.

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LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

example, she describes language as having “nuanced, complex, midwifery
properties” (201), and says that “word-work is sublime […] because it isgenerative” (203). She identifies this orientation of language to the futurewith the potential creativity of the linguistic imagination and the multiple
possible interpretations and perspectives it can open up, stating that “thevitality of language lies in its ability to limn the actual, imagined, andpossible lives of its speakers, readers, writers. […] It arcs toward the place
where meaning may lie” (202-03).3 Her acute sense of the openness oflanguage to the future stems also from her appreciation of its epistemological function: she sees language as a medium through which knowledge
can be both found and made, and insists that “unmolested language surges
toward knowledge” (203).
Morrison’s focus on language as a living thing produces an effusion of
positive and productive associations. However, this link between language
and the future is inherently politicized, since she clearly associates thecreativity of the linguistic consciousness not only with the future but alsowith freedom of thought and expression. This brings into play the flip sideof the existential paradigm, which equates dead language with the politics ofcensorship and oppression. She is acutely aware that language is also themedium through which subjection and domination takes place, and writes
extensively here about the danger presented to living language by dominantand domineering cultures, noting that “oppressive language does more thanrepresent violence; it is violence” (201). Moreover, access to the evolutionary, epistemological potential of language is forcibly barred by oppressive language, which “does more than represent the limits of knowledge; itlimits knowledge. […] Sexist language, racist language, theistic language–all
are typical of the policing languages of mastery, and cannot, do not permit
new knowledge or encourage the mutual exchange of ideas” (201).
The suppression of living language always entails both violence against
an oppressed Other and an element of temporal deformation in Morrison’swork. She describes dominant cultures as explicitly attempting to universalize their own cultural values and eternalize their own position of
dominance. By aggressively suppressing alternative worldviews and dissonant voices, they reduce diversity to a contrived form of consensus andideological uniformity.
3

This sense that language is oriented towards the future is found throughout her work.
She notes, for example, that ‘the imagination that produces work which bears and invites
rereadings, which motions to future readings as well as contemporary ones, implies ashareable world and an endlessly flexible language" (Playing xii).

20

FORMS OF TIME AND TYPOLOGIES OF CULTURE - SILLISThis brings into play a temporal perspective organized around notions ofpermanence, closure and fixity. Throughout her writing on the subject of
cultural dominance, she invariably correlates political oppression withcorrupted forms of temporal consciousness, describing it in terms of paralysis, stasis, stagnation, and death. She states here, for example, that “a deadlanguage is not only one no longer spoken or written, it is unyielding
language content to admire its own paralysis.” She also describes it as“calcified,” “disabled and disabling,” and “mov[ing] relentlessly to the bottom line and the bottomed-out mind” (200).
A deeply sinister form of agency accompanies the sense of temporalparalysis in Morrison’s account of dead language. She states that “however
moribund, it is not without effect for it actively thwarts the intellect, stalls
conscience, suppresses human potential” (200). Her descriptions of deadlanguage consciously draw on gothic images of the living dead and vampirism to suggest that it actually feeds off the identities of others.4 For
example, she says that “the heart of such language is languishing, or perhaps
not beating at all” (202), and describes it as being not only “dumb,” but“predatory” (200), “language that drinks blood, laps vulnerabilities” (201).
The sense of temporal deformation, which constantly accompanies her
accounts of cultural dominance is clearly intensified in the existential paradox contained in the idea of the living dead.
These inhuman images of the living dead also register Morrison’s senseof revulsion at the inhumane politics and ethics of dominant language. We
are told that dead language “leaves […] no access to human instincts” (201).
It does not recognize the humanity of others, and in perceiving otherhuman subjects as radically Other, it enacts a process of objectification
which is explicitly dehumanizing. Reification enacts an ontological redescription of the Other, allowing it to be cast as sub-human. This places
the Other-as-object beyond the reach of any system of ethics normallygoverning interactions between human subjects, and consequently sanctions behavior which would otherwise be considered inhumane.
Morrison sees the objectification of the Other not just as an ethicalevasion which normalizes abuse, however, but as an identity manoeuvrewith reflexive effects. In reifying and dehumanizing the Other, the dominant subject invokes a radical disjunction between self and Other, and so

4

See Rice, Chapter 5, “‘Who’s Eating Whom?’: The Discourse of Cannibalism inNarratives of the Black and White Atlantic,” for a discussion of images of cannibalism inhistorical and literary discourse about race.

21

LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

risks falling into a pathological state of solipsism.5 She describes dominantlanguage, for instance, as having “no desire or purpose other than maintaining the free range of its own narcotic narcissism” (200), and clearly
regards dominant language not just as dehumanizing but as dehumanized.6
Morrison sums up her sense that dogmatic language is itself dehumanized in her description of official language, “smitheryed to sanction
ignorance and preserve privilege,” as “a suit of armor polished to shocking
glitter, a husk from which the knight departed long ago” (200). The suit ofarmor is simultaneously a cliché of power; an empty, inanimate, andabstract simulacrum of the living human subject; and an invocation of
temporal stasis. The metaphor also emphasizes the reflective surface of thearmor, bringing to mind, once again, the pool into which the original
Narcissus gazed in a state of suicidal self-obsession.
In this sense, cultural dominance is characterized not only by a loss ofthe temporal dynamic associated with language conceived as an open
dialogue with alterity, but also by a concomitant vitiation of the processes at
the heart of identity formation. In the context of this debate on the politics
of identity formation, it is significant that Morrison describes “word-work”
as “sublime” not just “because it is generative,” but also because it “makes
meaning that secures our difference, our human difference—the way inwhich we are like no other life” (203).
This statement encapsulates the idea that Morrison’s concept of living
language, as well as occupying a completely different temporal register tothat of dead language, is also associated with an entirely different ethicalsensibility. In radically personalizing her concept of living language, therefore, she presents it not just as essentially human, but as fundamentally
humane.
Indeed, a sense of ethical awareness is integral to the concept of living
language as depicted in the “Nobel Lecture.” The old woman in the story
describes language as both “a living thing” and as “agency, an act with consequences” (200). The emphasis on agency incorporates both a sense of
responsibility for others and a benevolent attitude towards alterity. For
example, living language is described here as having “life-sustaining pro5

Morrison has noted elsewhere that “the trauma of racism is, for the racist and thevictim, the severe fragmentation of the self, and has always seemed to me a cause (not a
symptom) of psychosis—strangely of no interest to psychiatry” (“Unspeakable” 16).
6This idea is reflected in her statement that “slavery broke the world in half, it broke it inevery way. It broke Europe. It made them into something else, it made them slave
masters, it made them crazy. […] They had to dehumanize, not just the slaves but
themselves” (Gilroy, Small Acts 178).

22

FORMS OF TIME AND TYPOLOGIES OF CULTURE - SILLIS

perties” (203), and as being “a device for grappling with meaning, providing
guidance or expressing love” (200).
Whereas dead language subverts the normal flow of biological cycles oftime, living language nurtures the young and passes tradition and experience on through successive generations. It is described, in the words of thechildren in the story, as “song, […] literature, [a] poem full of vitamins, […]history connected to experience that you can pass along to help us startstrong” (205). The life-sustaining properties of living language are situatedwithin the context of a caring, intergenerational community, as is clearly
indicated in the children’s request for a transfer of historical and genericknowledge. This represents a healthy consciousness of past, present, andfuture as mediated through cycles of biological progression and the transmission of cultural and historical memory.
Although this Lecture begins by condemning all forms of oppression, its
actual setting in racialized America means that its attention comes to rest
inevitably on the devastating effects of racism on American society as awhole. Morrison explicitly identifies racism, both here and throughout her
work as a whole, with oppressive forms of language. She has developed atemporally inflected conceptualization of the link between language andpower, which she uses to characterize the relationship between America’s
dominant white, and subordinated black cultures.
The temporal deformation ascribed here to racist language is not just a
notional or theoretical invocation of time, but reflects her claim that theway in which the dominant white culture relates to its own historical pastand potential future has been seriously compromised by its own ideology of
racial supremacy. She has stated, for instance, that
we live in a land where the past is always erased and America is theinnocent future in which immigrants can come and start over, where theslate is clean. The past is absent or it’s romanticized. This culture doesn’t
encourage dwelling on, let alone coming to terms with, the truth about
the past. (Gilroy, Small Acts 179)

Similarly, she has asked whether America is “a country so hungry for apurely imagined past of innocence and clarity that it is willing to subvert the
future and, in fact, to declare that there is none, in order to wallow inillusion?” (“Writers Together” 397).77

See Morrison’s Jefferson Lecture in the Humanities, “The Future of Time,” for an
extended treatment of the ethical and temporal deformations invoked by Western

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LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

Within the “Nobel Lecture,” Morrison graphically depicts dominant
political language spilling out into the community as a whole and leaving a
trail of death and destruction. For example, the old woman thinks that:“there is and will be rousing language to keep citizens armed and arming;slaughtered and slaughtering in the malls, courthouses, post offices, playgrounds, bedrooms and boulevards; stirring, memorializing language tomask the pity and waste of needless death” (201). This presents an extraordinary picture of a fundamentally pathologized society, which has been
totally dehumanized by the violence inherent in its own founding mythologies of national identity.
The old woman also states that “in her country” (that is to say, in
America) “children have bitten their tongues off and use bullets instead toiterate the voice of speechlessness” (200). Once again, Morrison associates
silenced speech with violence, and since bullets represent both death andlanguage here, this image immediately invokes the temporal dead-end of
dominant ideology.8 The image is doubly disturbing because the children
are depicted as both victims and instruments of dominant language. This
would seem to signify not only that patterns of cultural dominance arepassed on through generations, but that this society, in corrupting its own
children in this manner, is sabotaging its own future.
In presenting white America as a dominant culture here, Morrison
seems to go further than ascribing its historical involvement in slavery to atemporary ethical aberration. She tracks the chain of associations between
dominant language, oppression, and corrupted time right back to its sourcein the ideological and epistemological foundations of modern Western
discourse. For example, she finds evidence of oppressive language not only inthe “mindless media” but also in the “language […] of politics and history,”the “calcified language of the academy,” “the commodity driven language ofscience,” and “the malign language of law-without-ethics” (201-02).
This amounts to a comprehensive attack on the authoritative discoursesof Western rationalism, which have traditionally functioned to legitimate
knowledge and underpin judgments of cultural value. Morrison seems to besuggesting here that the ideology of racial superiority is firmly embedded in

apocalyptic perceptions of history. See also Christiansё, especially Chapter Three,“Morrison’s Modernist Apocalyptics,” for a discussion of these themes.
8This is reminiscent of her description of racism as “a death-dealing ideology” in“Home” (5).

24

FORMS OF TIME AND TYPOLOGIES OF CULTURE - SILLIS

the very roots of Western models of epistemology.9 This is consistent withher description of white cultural supremacy in the West as “whiteness as
ideology” in her Tanner Lecture on Human Values, “Unspeakable Things
Unspoken” (16).
In that Lecture, Morrison argued that the academic establishment
performs an aggressively conservative political function in legislating cultural value against the benchmark of its own canonical texts. The temporalperspective embodied in the conservative canon is specifically organizedaround the task of perpetuating control over perceptions of cultural value.
She makes this argument very forcefully in the following comment:
Canon building is Empire building. Canon defense is national defense.
Canon debate, whatever the terrain, nature and range (of criticism, ofhistory, of the history of knowledge, of the definition of language, theuniversality of aesthetic principles, the sociology of art, the humanistic
imagination), is the clash of cultures. And all of the interests are vested.
(“Unspeakable” 8, emphasis in original)In the “Nobel Lecture,” Morrison clearly associates dogmatic, or dead,language with the epistemological foundations of Western rationalism
when she describes it as “arrogant pseudo-empirical language crafted tolock creative people into cages of inferiority and hopelessness” (202).
Conversely, she explicitly associates living language here with an entirely
different epistemological paradigm. In direct contrast to the rationalist
desire to classify phenomena, codify knowledge, and discover universal laws
(which are, by definition, immutable), the old woman in the story suggeststhat “the force” and “felicity” of language lies “in its reach towards theineffable” (203, emphasis added).
The old woman herself actually personifies a traditional, non-Western,
epistemological perspective. At the very beginning of the Lecture, she isidentified as a griot or guru, and her intelligence is described as “rural,” orfolk “wisdom.” The fact that the source of her knowledge lies in “lore” and9

Edward Said, in his seminal study Orientalism, also identified Western hegemony with
its conviction of cultural and epistemological supremacy. He defined the “relationshipbetween Occident and Orient” as one “of power, of domination, of varying degrees of acomplex hegemony” (5), and stated that what different forms of Orientalism all have incommon (and he cites German, Anglo-French and later American forms) is “a kind of
intellectual authority over the Orient within Western culture” (19, emphasis in original).
He describes authority as being “virtually indistinguishable from certain ideas it dignifies
as true, and from traditions, perceptions, and judgements it forms, transmits, reproduces” (19-20).

25

LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY“clairvoyance,” means that it is automatically discredited by the dominantculture, represented here as the city, “where the intelligence of rural
prophets is the source of much amusement” (198). This invokes a radical
disjunction between the epistemological models of modern Western andtraditional societies, and also signals a hiatus between their respectivemodes of historical consciousness.10 In addition, the ambivalent status of theold woman as “both the law and transgression” among her own people puts
her totally outside the either/or logic of rationalism (198).
It is highly significant, moreover, that wherever we find the trace ofliving language in this Lecture, it is associated with the African American
subjects it presents. Within the Lecture, for example, direct speech itself, as
opposed to abstract formulations of dead language such as “the voice ofspeechlessness” (200), is the prerogative of the old woman, the children, andMorrison herself. Morrison identifies herself with the old woman as a black
female writer, who represents the cultural, ethical, and epistemologicalvalues of African America. This is consistent with her personal identification with an interlocative model of black language and aesthetics, which
has been comprehensively generically informed by traditions that originated in its oral cultural practices. 11
The children in the story, despite the fact that the old woman “does notknow their color, gender or homeland” (199), also align themselves with thecultural and epistemological paradigm of Black America, since it transpiresthat they have come not to intimidate her but to ask for guidance. Although
they begin by asking the old woman to “make up a story” (205), they
actually proceed to improvise the desired narrative themselves. In so doing,
they function as oral narrators in their own right, thereby identifying closelywith the old woman and Morrison herself. Furthermore, the content of thechildren’s narrative also links them to the black history. It registers thesuffering and loss incurred through the experience of slavery, but also10
See Bhabha’s discussion of Fanon's essay, “The Fact of Blackness,” and the disjunction
between the temporality of Western modernity and that ascribed to the colonized.
(Chapter 12, “‘Race,’ time and the revision of modernity.”) Consider also, in this context,
Hegel's comment (taken from a series of lectures originally given between 1821 and1831) that “Africa […] is no historical part of the World; it has no movement ordevelopment to exhibit. […] What we properly understand by Africa, is theUnhistorical, Undeveloped Spirit, still involved in the conditions of mere nature” (99).
11Morrison has stated, for example: “My métier is Black. […] I wanted to write literaturethat was irrevocably, indisputably Black, not because its characters were, or because I
was, but because it took as its creative task and sought as its credentials those recognizedand verifiable principles of Black art” (“Memory” 388-389).

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FORMS OF TIME AND TYPOLOGIES OF CULTURE - SILLIS

represents, in the singing and melodies of the slaves, the creativity andvitality of black culture, and the survival of its generic forms.
This fragment of imagined slave narrative also concentrates the opposition between living and dead language, which structures the piece as awhole. Whilst the slaves are associated here with signs of life, such as birth(“placenta in a field” [206]), song, breath, the warmth of bodies and the sun,they are actually moving into the domain of the dead language of racism,
which is signified here by the freezing cold.
The slaves are being transported in a wagon into slavery from ships at
the shoreline, and at a stop on the road they are brought food and drink bya boy and girl at an inn. We are told that at this stop they are also offered“something more” by the girl: “a glance into the eyes of the ones she serves[…] a look. They look back” (207). This look signifies both human contact
and mutual recognition between human subjects. By the time they reach thenext stop, however, the slaves will have entered the jurisdiction of a slave
economy within which they will be fully objectified and dehumanized. This
categorical change of status is signified through the temporal closure contained in the statement that “the next stop will be their last” (207).
The interaction between the old woman and the children is also highly
significant in terms of the exposition it presents of the concept of living
language. The dynamic of this oral tale actually hinges on language conceived as dialogue between interlocutors. The potential for dialogue seems
to break down at two points: when the old woman thinks that the children
are using language as an “instrument through which power is exercised”(199); and when the children perceive the old woman’s cryptic answer as
signifying a refusal to engage, or a “retreat into the singularity of isolation,
in sophisticated, privileged space” (204). At these points, textual references
to power, arrogance, and isolation infiltrate the text to indicate the presenceof dead language, which takes the form, here, of a perceived failure tocommunicate subject to subject. As soon as the old woman’s silence provokes the children into speech, however, a real dialogue can be started, andit transpires that this provocation of genuine dialogue was the old woman’s
objective all along. The Lecture closes with the following statement from theold woman: “I trust you with the bird that is not in your hands because you
have truly caught it. Look. How lovely it is, this thing we have done—
together” (207).
It seems clear that, in basing her “Nobel Lecture” on this exchange,
Morrison simultaneously contrives to dramatize the principle of living language as dialogue, and to identify living language with the antiphonic oral
27

LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

culture of African America. This identification is also reflected in the formal
arrangement of the piece, determining its structural form from beginning toend. Morrison opens the Lecture with the opening phrases of the oral tale,
and also brings it to a conclusion in the old woman’s response to the children.
Formally speaking, therefore, there is nothing in this Lecture which falls
outside its framing within the oral tale. This formal arrangement alone would
seem to imply that there is nothing in the Lecture in terms of its content,
which is intended to be read outside its framing within the oral tale.
Whilst Morrison clearly identifies dead language with both racism andmodern Western culture in this Lecture, therefore, she expressly locatesliving language in the oral cultural forms of Black America. Paradoxically,
this means that, despite all the talk about white ideology as a dominant
form of language, the dominant ideological perspective presented here isactually that of black language. Moreover, the emphatic valorization of theepistemological and ethical foundations of living language, which is embedded within this piece, means that the “Nobel Lecture” can be read as anunequivocal celebration of black language, time, and identity.

Conclusion
Writing on black identity in the US has always been subject to articulation
within the comparative framework of Anglo-American and African American cultural, political, and epistemological traditions. The most famous formulation of this bi-cultural perspective is probably encapsulated in W.E.B.
Du Bois’s account of “double consciousness,” which he defined as:a peculiar sensation […] of always looking at one’s self through the eyesof others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on inamused contempt and pity. One ever feels his two-ness, – an American,a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; twowarring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps itfrom being torn asunder. (5)Morrison has spent most of her career explicitly engaged in the struggle toarticulate black identity in the context of a dominant and encircling whiteculture. Despite the wider dissemination of critical analysis on the subject ofrace to which Morrison has contributed, however, and official initiatives
designed to promote multiculturalism as a new social norm, she continues

28

FORMS OF TIME AND TYPOLOGIES OF CULTURE - SILLIS

to insist that racism is an issue that defies resolution.12 She stated in aninterview in 2012, for example, that racism is a “cancer which is latent in
America” (“Talking Books”). This suggests, in fact, that nothing has reallychanged since 1989, when she said that “‘race’ is still a virtually unspeakable
thing,” a subject that even “genuinely intellectual exchange cannot accommodate” (“Unspeakable” 3).
Morrison plays on the term “unspeakable” here not just to express moral
aversion to racism, but to suggest that racist ideology actually resists
attempts made by “intellectual exchange” to dismantle its structures. Her
own work demonstrates that racialized language functions as a totalizing
ideology. For instance, she sums up the conceptual impasse, which total
immersion within the language of a dominant ideology presents to the enslaved or colonized subject, in the following description of the fate of Friday
in Robinson Crusoe:
it is not just easy to speak the master’s language, it is necessary. One is
obliged to cooperate in the misuse of figurative language, in thereinforcement of cliché, the erasure of difference, the jargon of justice, theevasion of logic, the denial of history, the crowning of patriarchy, theinscription of hegemony; […] Such rhetorical strategies become necessary
because, without one’s own idiom, there is no other language to speak.
(Race-ing xxviii–ix)

Morrison acknowledged the acute personal and existential difficulties she
faced as a writer living and working in the context of a highly racialized
language, when she described herself as “a black writer struggling with andthrough a language that can powerfully evoke and enforce hidden signs ofracial superiority, cultural hegemony, and dismissive “othering” of people
and language” (Playing x–xi).
Given the conclusions of the analysis presented here, however, it seems
that her adoption of a temporal perspective on cultural forms may haveprovided her with a foothold, outside the totalizing structures of racialized
language, from which to articulate African American identity as a “center ofthe self” rather than as the object of another people’s discourse (“Unspeakable” 9). She certainly draws on insights provided by the implicit
temporal ordering of her philosophy of language to pinpoint the para12
The following statement implies that Morrison sees the politics of multiculturalism as
little more than a re-inscription of racial inequality: “We need to think about what it means
and what it takes to live in a redesigned racial house and—evasively and erroneously—callit diversity or multiculturalism as a way of calling it home” (“Home” 8).

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LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

digmatically critical sources of disparities between the forms of cultural
logic which characterize black and white language practices, and theirassociated perceptions of identity.
It would also seem to be the case that these insights have allowed her tocelebrate black identity without reverting to the kind of “racial metaphysics”
which simply inverts the current balance of power (Gilroy, Black Atlantic
191). This is undoubtedly a danger which she wishes to avoid, as the following comment, from Playing in the Dark, illustrates:
I do not want to alter one hierarchy in order to insinuate another. […] I
do not want to encourage those totalizing approaches to AfricanAmerican scholarship which have no drive other than the exchange ofdominations—dominant Eurocentric scholarship replaced by dominantAfrocentric scholarship. (8, emphasis in original)

Temporal modeling can therefore be seen to have provided Morrison withan analytical framework which captures the mechanisms through whichracism functions as an essentializing discourse. The very same framework
also allows her to describe African American language and culture in termsof a generic, rather than a genetic paradigm of identity, which exhibits amore open sensibility of temporal and linguistic forms. This supports anethical understanding of alterity, based not on the foundation of an
essentialist ontology of being but on a relational model, which tolerates
epistemological ambiguity and values individual difference. As a consequence, she can characterize African American cultural forms in terms of aphilosophy of language and an ethics of identity which actually resist theessentialist foundations of racially oppressive discourse.

Works Cited
Bakhtin, M.M. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays by M.M. Bakhtin. Austin,
TX: University of Texas Press, 1981.
Bakhtin, M.M. Speech Genres and Other Late Essays. Austin, TX: U of Texas P,
1986.
Bhabha, Homi K. The Location Of Culture. London: Routledge, 1994.
Christian, Barbara. The Race for Theory.” Within the Circle: An Anthology ofAfrican American Literary Criticism from the Harlem Renaissance to thePresent. Ed. Angelyn Mitchell. Durham: Duke UP, 1994.
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Christians, Yvette. Toni Morrison: An Ethical Poetics. New York: Fordham UP,
2013.
Du Bois, W.E.B. The Souls of Black Folk. London: Penguin Books, 1996.
Fanon, Frantz. Black Skins, White Masks. London: Pluto, 1986.
Gilroy, Paul. The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard UP, 1993.
Gilroy, Paul. Small Acts: Thoughts on the Politics of Black Cultures. London:
Serpent’s Tail, 1993.
Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich. The Philosophy of History. New York: Dover
Publications, 1956.
Lubiano, Wahneema, ed. The House That Race Built: Black Americans, U.S.
Terrain. New York: Pantheon Books, 1997.
Mitchell, Angelyn, ed. Within the Circle: An Anthology of African
American Literary Criticism from the Harlem Renaissance to the Present.
Durham: Duke UP, 1994.
Morrison, Toni. “Writers Together.” Nation 24 Oct. 1981: 396–397, 412.
—. “Memory, Creation and Writing.” Thought Vol. 59, No. 235 (Dec. 1984):
385–390.
—. Beloved London: Picador, 1988.
—. “Unspeakable Things Unspoken: The African American Presence in American Literature.” Michigan Quarterly Review Vol. 28, No. 1 (1989): 1–34.
—. Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination. Cambridge:
Harvard UP, 1992.
—. ed. Race-ing Justice, En-gendering Power: Essays on Anita Hill, ClarenceThomas, and the Construction of Social Reality. London: Chatto & Windus,
1993.
—. “Home.” The House That Race Built: Black Americans, U.S. Terrain. Ed.
Wahneema Lubiano. New York: Pantheon Books, 1997. 3–12.
—. “The Future of Time: Literature and Diminished Expectations.” What
Moves at the Margin: Selected Nonfiction. Jackson: UP of Mississippi, 2008.
170–86.
—. “The Nobel Lecture in Literature.” What Moves at the Margin:
Selected Nonfiction. Jackson: UP of Mississippi, 2008. 198–207.
—. What Moves at the Margin: Selected Nonfiction. Jackson: UP of Mississippi,
2008.
—. “Interview with Razia Iqbal.” Talking Books BBC News, 5 October, 2012.
Extract available at http:www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-radio-and-tv-19834043.
Retrieved 13/09/13.
Rice, Alan. Radical Narratives of the Black Atlantic. Continuum, 2003.
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Said, Edward. Orientalism. London: Penguin, 2003.

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Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye:
Lost and Found in Translation

Lynn Penrod
When marking the thirtieth anniversary of the awarding of the Nobel Prizein Literature to Toni Morrison, most of us have absolutely no difficulty inunderstanding the choice of the Nobel Prize Committee of 1993. Morrison,
to quote her Nobel citation, is a writer, “who in novels characterized byvisionary force and poetic import, gives life to an essential aspect of American reality” (Nobelprize.org). But here we also come to some critical questions for the literary translator of a Nobel laureate’s work. What happens toan author’s work, either the entire body of work, or perhaps just a single
book, when it appears “in translation”? And, more particularly, what is thetranslational fate of any writer in the wake of becoming forever known as“Nobel Prize-winning author X”? 1
When a Nobel laureate is known primarily, often solely, through a bodyof work that has originally appeared in a language other than English(prime recent examples would include Elfriede Jelinek, Herta Müller, Orhan
Pahmuk, Mo Yan, or Tomas Tranströmer), the result is predictably an
instantaneous deluge of demands from English-speaking readers desperately seeking translations of these authors’ works. Literary translators
worldwide work feverishly to meet publishers’ deadlines. Online booksellers
and independent booksellers alike to provide rush copies (often brandedwith special stickers declaring “Winner of the Nobel Prize” or quickly given
new dust jackets with the words “Nobel Prize Winner” emblazoned onthem). Publishers can be fairly sure that sales will increase, perhaps not
1

This essay provides only a very general introduction to a planned larger study dealing
with Nobel laureates in literature and their translation profiles before and after winning
the Nobel Prize. It is intended to encourage the translation of Nobel laureates into as
many world languages as possible.

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forever, but certainly sufficiently to ensure at least a small increase in theirbottom line. For literary scholars as well, the announcement of a new Nobel
laureate is also a source of new and exciting possibilities for research andtranslation plays a critical role here. And for the reading public (from members of book clubs to travelers seeking a ‘good read’ on a train or plane) theNobel Prize for Literature serves as a reliable assurance that their reading
experience will be if not always enjoyable at least thought-provoking.
So what do we mean when we speak of “Toni Morrison in translation”?
What actually happens to her work (or indeed the work of any writer) as it
crosses not only linguistic borders but entire cultural frontiers as well? How
do the theory and practice of “translating” Toni Morrison’s novels potentially affect Morrison criticism, analysis, reputation, or pedagogy?

What is “Found” in Translation?
I should perhaps begin by defining what I mean by literary translation. And
what does the process of literary translation allow us to “find” in a writer’s
work? Rainer Schulte, co-founder of the American Literary Translators
Association, has stated:
Literary translation bridges the delicate emotional connections between
cultures and languages and furthers the understanding of human beings
across national borders. In the act of literary translation, the soul ofanother culture becomes transparent, and the translator recreates therefined sensibilities of foreign countries and their people through the
linguistic, musical, rhythmic, and visual possibilities of the new language.
(UTDallas.edu)

While Schulte may be overly optimistic about the reality of what literarytranslation can offer, it is important to remember that simply in terms of
the importance and dissemination of any author’s work, translation has
always played an integral part in establishing reputation, longevity, acceptance into the literary canon of world literature, or increased scholarly
attention to any individual work or writer.
That said, however, the place of translation within the literary system
was for many centuries limited to a secondary role, translation being considered the handmaiden of literature and translators mere technicians
whose goal was to provide equivalence of the linguistic text, thereby transporting the original (creative) text into an equivalent (but not creative in thesense of an “original” author’s creativity) version, thus making the author’s
work accessible to a larger global reading public.
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In very general terms literary translation can be considered somewhat
arbitrarily as involving two major overlapping areas of intellectual endeavor:
the linguistic and the cultural. One must never forget, however, that for atranslator these two discourses, linguistic and cultural, are constantly in dialogue. Although the majority of early prominent scholars dealing with translation came largely from the field of linguistics (Georges Mounin, Eugene
Nida, Jiri Levy, M.B. Dagut, Albrecht Neubert, for example), later contributors to what has become over the course of the past three decades a new
discipline within the humanities, Translation Studies, focus their work on theimportance of culture within the translation process.
Roman Jakobson speaks of three major types of translation: intralingual(re-wording), interlingual (what he terms translation proper), and intersemiotic (transmutation, or moving from verbal to non-verbal sign systems)
and like other linguists points out that complete equivalence is always
impossible (Jakobson, 237). Yet Octavio Paz, in his essay “Translation:
Literature and Letters,” refers to translation as a confirmation and guarantee of spiritual bonds (Schulte and Biguenet, 152). Because we are able totranslate, there must be some sort of underlying spiritual structure thatallows us to do it. Yet Paz points out as well that translation eventually becomes, or can become, a tool for the exploitation of differences rather thancommon ground between people from different places. He also underscores
the fact that languages are significantly nation bound, stating that “thelanguage that enables us to communicate with one another also encloses us
in an invisible web of sounds and meanings, so that each nation is imprisoned by its language, a language further fragmented by historical eras,
by social classes, by generations” (153).
Thus we see that although cultural issues and context have always been
important features of translation (an activity that has been going on even
before the Tower of Babel), the primary focus of a translation began assolidly grounded in linguistic ‘equivalence’ and for many practicing translators remains so today. However, Paz’s words lead us to that more recent
focus of translation studies scholars, the insistence on what we call “thecultural turn” in translation, which is critical for any study of Toni
Morrison’s work in translation. Without going into great detail about theevolution of this “cultural turn,” let’s use an illustrative example provided
by Susan Bassnett in her Reflections on Translation:
An English teacher from New Zealand told me about the difficulty she had
convincing her pupils that the poetry they were reading about spring
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happening in April made sense. In Northern Europe, the daffodils do start
to flower in March and by April, spring is so advanced that Browning
could write longingly about wanting to be back in England at that mostbeautiful time of the year. But in the southern hemisphere the daffodils
bloom in September, while in April the leaves are falling and winter is on
the way. How then to understand the symbolic significance of T. S. Eliot’slines “April is the cruelest month breeding/Lilacs out of the dead land” orShakespeare’s ironic “men are April when they woo” without engaging inwhat can only be called cultural translation? (Bassnett, Reflections 124–25)

This example dealing with seasons is only one of many that punctuate theimportance, increasingly so, of literary translation despite the calls for
global English or ELF (English as the world’s lingua franca). But given that
Morrison writes both within a western tradition and in English, why does
the cultural turn matter so much in translations of her work?
Susan Huddleston Edgerton, in her article, “Remembering the mothertongue(s): Toni Morrison, Julie Dash and the language of pedagogy,” emphasizes that a crucial theme in all of Morrison’s work involves memory
and the importance of translating the (body) memory. Edgerton is here
speaking as if “translation” were a kind of higher-level metaphor; however,
if one considers the cultural significance of Toni Morrison’s work as that ofgiving voice to “American reality,” it is not difficult to understand theintimate connection between translation as metaphor and literary translation as cultural process in action. This connection can be seen not only inthe re-production of Morrison’s “English” text in another language but in
another culture as well. As Edgerton states:
Memory involves a kind of translation, an ongoing reinterpretation of
events, thoughts, feelings, and sensations past. Remembering is translation
within a body, though it is mediated by a community of listeners, or
imagined listeners, and by time. Its utterance sometimes emerges as
testimony, sometimes confession, revelation, complaint, nostalgia, orordinary conversation. Translation memory to language can be rich orpoor, revisionary or compulsive. (…) Translation, memory, and testimony
surely operate somewhere in between. (342)Translation of literary texts concerns the crossing of linguistic as well as
cultural, economic, and historical barriers effectively. Translating Toni
Morrison provides the literary translator with an interesting set of challenges indeed.

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Toni Morrison “Found” and “Lost” in Translation: The Case of The Bluest Eye
As already suggested, the Nobel Prize marks the moment in the career of awriter when many publishers, scholars, and readers worldwide discover him
or her either for the first time or in a more comprehensive manner. Thevery best accolade of the Nobel Prize in Literature is often neither themonetary prize nor a nation’s pride that one of its authors has beenhonored. It is rather the possibility of an introduction to and appreciationof new ideas, new situations, and new narrative worlds previously unexplored. When searching for information about available translations of aNobel laureate’s literary works, most literary translators use World Cat astheir common reference tool. However, it is often the case that translations
are not easily located using ordinary search tools. In the case of Toni
Morrison’s The Bluest Eye, World Cat provides the following information
relating to translations into various languages since its publication in 1970:
Japanese (3), Spanish (3), German (2), Persian (2), Turkish (2), and one
each in Chinese, Czech, Danish, Dutch, Finnish, French, Hebrew, Italian,
Korean, Norwegian, Portuguese, Slovak, Slovenian, and Vietnamese.2
In the introduction to his guide to The Bluest Eye, Harold Bloom gives us
an important insight into the text when he states that “Morrison’s story is a
powerful dramatic expression of the sentiment conveyed by James Baldwin
in his essay, ‘Autobiographical Notes’:”I don’t think that the Negro problem in America can even be discussed
coherently without bearing in mind its context; its context being thehistory, traditions, customs, the moral assumptions and preoccupationsof the country; in short, the general social fabric. Appearances to thecontrary, no one in America escapes its effects and everyone in America
bears some responsibility for it. (Notes of a Native Son, 1955, quoted inBloom, 20)

What does this mean for a translator of The Bluest Eye? Given that the two
languages I work in are English and French, I can use the French translationof Morrison’s text in order to describe how the two intertwined facets of2
Other translations of Morrison’s works into French include Sula, trans. P. Alien, Paris,
Bourgois, 1992; Le Chant de Salomon, trans. S. Rué, Paris, Acropole, Collection 10/18,
1985; retrans. J. Guiloineau, Paris, Bourgois, 1996 ; Tar Baby, tr. S. Rué, Paris, Acropole,
Collection 10/18, 1986; trans. J. Guiloineau, Paris, Bourgois, 1996. Beloved, trans. H.
Chabrier and S. Rué, Paris, Bourgois, Collection 10/18, 1986 ; Jazz, trans. P. Alien, Paris,
Bourgois, 1992. The largest number of Morrison’s translations were published in 1994,
one year following the awarding of the 1993 Nobel Prize for Literature.

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translation, the linguistic and the cultural, provide major challenges in theimportant task of moving Toni Morrison narrative world from American
English into French. The discussion that follows does not have as its object
the evaluation of the French translation; indeed it is for the most part a
good one and many of the linguistic and cultural challenges have been met
adequately by Morrison’s French translator. My objective is to make
Morrison scholars, whatever their language, aware of the Toni Morrison
created through translation and to underscore the necessity of appropriate
cultural as well as linguistic knowledge bases for the translator.
The only French translation of The Bluest Eye (L’Oeil le plus bleu) was
published in Paris in 1994, one year following the writer’s Nobel Prize, by
Christian Bourgois and translated by Jean Guiloineau, a well-respectedtranslator who is probably best known for his French translations of works
related to Nelson Mandela and South Africa. When Guiloineau was asked
in a 2011 interview why he had decided to translate the novel, he responded
that it had not been his idea originally but that he had been approached by
the publisher and had accepted since he considers Morrison to be one ofAmerica’s greatest writers.
Asked what his impressions were after a first reading of the novel,
Guiloineau answered:
The first reading presented numerous problems in terms of translation.
The first novel by Toni Morrison seemed to me to be rather different
from those I had already read (Sula, Beloved, Tar Baby…) The special
world of childhood, narrated incidents of violence and tenderness, akind of contained rage linked to the situation of Blacks (…) I had to put
all that into French with the same grace, the same elegance as Toni
Morrison’s writing. The fact that I had not already read the novel (…)
helped me. I was “new” in a way in terms of this novel and in terms of
Morrison’s work. (Elsa et Léa, np) [my translation]

Guiloineau goes on to state that although he later met Morrison (and went
on to translate another work by her), his relationship with her was neverparticularly warm. It is also of note that this is a translation from theHexagon, metropolitan France, and has perhaps not had as wide a dissemination or distribution in other francophone countries, as one would hopefor—where Morrison’s texts (not only The Bluest Eye, but many others)
would perhaps have greater resonance since readers there, both in terms of
their past colonial relationship to France as well as their postcolonial con-38

THE BLUEST EYE: LOST AND FOUND IN TRANSLATION - PENROD

temporary dealings with things French, would be eager to explore a similar
terrain set in America.
Guiloineau does make clear that Morrison’s work exists within a very
particular context: the narrative of slavery, the struggle for human rights in
the United States, the sometimes specific sub-cultures of jazz or blues. Her
language is particularly powerful and evocative, demonstrating a mastery ofEnglish “with a touch of poetry” and an ability to play with various types ofAmerican “Englishes” to show differences in class, history, and culture
between not only Whites and Blacks but between North and South as well.
To make all this accessible to the French reader, using only the resources of
the French language, which of course has had an entirely different history, isan enormous challenge.

Linguistic and Cultural Challenges for Translators of The Bluest Eye
Even though The Bluest Eye is Morrison’s first novel, it nonethelessprovides a vast inventory of her incredibly creative and musical use of
Africanisms and Afro-American English within an American context ofseveral historical time periods—the 40s, the 60s, and even earlier.
But simply to begin at the beginning, the translator must make a very
important initial decision about translation of the title: The Bluest Eye. In
French the translator has simply kept the original, opting for a singular eye(L’Oeil le plus bleu). Yet the Spanish translators have opted for the plural,
Ozos azules. The bluest “eye” is of course, not precisely what Pecola has
wished for: she wants blue eyes, the symbol of everything “beautiful” in thewhite world to which she does not belong. Yet Morrison has carefully
chosen a singular “Eye” for her title as it is the homonym of the English
first-person singular, I, pronoun of identity formation and agency, a loss inany other language.
Questions of register and the complex interweaving and cross-cutting oftime and place in Morrison’s text also present significant linguistic challenges to the translator throughout the text. The voices of the child Claudia
and the adult Claudia, although belonging to the same character, must be
heard differently. “Quiet as it’s kept” (np), “Nuns go by as quiet as lust” (9),or the difference between “being put out and being put outdoors” (17)—these sound like fairly basic English phrases, but for the translator they
represent many hours of thoughtful consideration and attention.
These days, literary translators, balancing competing concepts of localization and ‘foreignization’, tend to leave place names and character namesin their original language. However, it is nonetheless interesting to ponder
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how the non-English reader will react to the names Cholly Breedlove,
Soaphead Church, or Pecola, or whether Lorain, Ohio; Mobile, Alabama; orMacon, Georgia can successfully carry the resonance of place into Frenchthat is so carefully communicated in Morrison’s English text.
The skin color spectrum so artfully deployed by Morrison in The Bluest
Eye is also a potential minefield of challenges: “high-yellow dream girl” (62),“sugar-brown” (82), or “love, thick and dark as Alaga syrup” (12) are just a
few examples of critical vocabulary a translator must come to terms with.
The use of common Afro-American speech rhythms and pronunciations[the insults hurled at Pecola: “Black e mo” or “Ya daddsleeps nekked”(65);the concept of “playing nasty” (30); “six-finger-dog-tooth-meringuepie”(73); “You’d make a haint buy a girdle” (52); or the McTeer girls’ worry
that “mama gone get us” (105)] must be carefully and consistently handled.
While on this purely linguistic level the translator of any of Morrison’s
texts faces a difficult yet rewarding task, beyond the linguistic elements thatthreaten the text’s integrity as it crosses frontiers from English into “otherthan-English” we need to consider the cultural divide separating the American Lorain, Ohio, of The Bluest Eye from the receiving cultural landscape ofthe unilingual French reader in Paris, Tunis, or Martinique. And perhaps
the best example of the very large cultural translation problem for thetranslator of The Bluest Eye is the lengthy primer passage that begins the
text. I quote it here in its entirety, admitting that it is not necessarily muchof a linguistic challenge but that arguably it stands as a Mount Everest ofcultural translation challenge that I believe has proved impossible to conquer for any translator to date.
Here is the house. It is green and white. It has a red door. It is very pretty.
Here is the family. Mother, Father, Dick, and Jane live in the green-andwhite house. They are very happy. See Jane. She has a red dress. She wants
to play. Who will play with Jane? See the cat. It goes meow-meow. Comeand play. Come and play with Jane. The kitten will not play. See Mother.
Mother is very nice. Mother, will you play with Jane? Mother laughs.
Laugh, Mother, laugh. See Father. He is big and strong. Father, will you
play with Jane? Father is smiling. Smile, Father, smile. See the dog.
Bowwow goes the dog. Do you want to play with Jane? See the dog run.
Run, dog, run. Look, look. Here comes a friend. The friend will play withJane. They will play a good game. Play, Jane, play. (Morrison 1970, 3)

Many critics and interpreters of The Bluest Eye have commented extensively
on these generic yet instantly recognizable excerpts from the very well40

THE BLUEST EYE: LOST AND FOUND IN TRANSLATION - PENROD

known (at least to American readers) series of primers from which many of
us learned to read. William Elson and William Gray’s Dick and Jane stories,
so familiar to American children who were of school-age in the 1940s
through the late 1960s, are incredibly culturally rooted. The Elson-Grayprimers originated in the 1930s and became extremely popular through the1940s and 1950s. With their idealized middle-class family of three children(Dick, Jane, and little sister Sally), a dog (Spot) and a cat (Puff), they reproduce existing class and race divergence and reinforce dominant ideologiesof the day.
The friction between the picture of the American dream presented in theprimers is extraordinarily hard to handle without resorting to extra-textual
material such as a translator’s introduction or a set of translator’s notes
relating to many of the culturally significant elements of Morrison’s text.
Not only are the primer excerpts repeated as a kind of preface to the textual
narrative, they also serve as prefaces to the various narrative threads
throughout the novel, and we can easily see how Morrison “illuminates disparities between the primer’s representations and the realities of life forblack children. By running the words of the primer together, she shows theredundancy of this ‘definitive’ narrative of childhood” (Lister, 26). Yet theordinary practice of contemporary publishers of translations is to reject atranslator’s attempts (via an introduction or translator’s notes) to provide
essential cultural context for a book, even when that context is critical for areader’s full appreciation of the text.
Other cultural references within The Bluest Eye, whether to Shirley
Temple dolls or cups, Mary Jane candies, the film Imitation of Life, while
perhaps not linguistic challenges, still leave the translator often searchingfor innovative ways to supplement the text so that readers who have noknowledge of these cultural artifacts, will understand or at least be curious
enough to find out about them.

Conclusion, Or Why Translation Matters
In a moving and memorable speech upon her acceptance of the National
Book Foundation’s Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American
letters in 1996, Toni Morrison relates two anecdotes, one about a “reader
disabled by an absence of solitude” and the other about a “writer imperiledby the absence of a hospitable community,” stating that both stories “fuseand underscore …the seriousness of the industry whose sole purpose is the
publication of writers for readers” (Morrison, Dancing 15–16). I would
simply suggest here that we add translator to reader and writer as a focus of41

LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

Morrison’s concern related to the seriousness of the publishing industry inthe twenty-first century. Without translation the publishing industry, eventhe virtual publishing industry, cannot thrive.
When asked by interviewer Thomas Le Clair for her opinion of whatmakes her own work “good,” Morrison replied:
The language, only the language. The language must be careful and must
appear effortless. It must not sweat. It must suggest and be provocative at
the same time. It is the thing that black people love so much—the saying ofwords, holding them on the tongue, experimenting with them, playing
with them. It’s a love, a passion. Its function is like a preacher’s: to makeyou stand up out of your seat, make you lose yourself and hear yourself.
The worst of all possible things that could happen would be to lose that
language. There are certain things I cannot say without recourse to mylanguage. It’s terrible to think that a child with five different present tenses
comes to school to be faced with those books that are less than his own
language. And then to be told things about his language, which is him, thatare sometimes permanently damaging. He may never know the etymology
of Africanisms in this language, or even know that “hip” is really a word orthat “the dozens” meant something. This is a really cruel fallout of racism.
I know the standard English. I want to use it to help restore the otherlanguage, the lingua franca. (Morrison quoted in Le Clair, 27)

In a recent interview on National Public Radio, Edith Grossman, awardwinning Spanish-to-English literary translator, had this to say: “I thinktranslation is the cement that holds literary civilization together. It’s the way
we learn about other literatures, other peoples (…). The way we learn about
the world is through translation. Since not everyone can read every language in the world, the only way to find out what people are writing andthinking is to read translations” (NPR).
Toni Morrison has often been quoted on why she began writing and inseveral speeches has told her audience that if there is a book that you want
to read but that has not yet been written you must be the one to write it. For
literary translators Morrison’s message could easily be modified to state that
if there is a book that you want others to read but that has not been translated, you must be the one to translate it—or at the very least encourageanother translator to find a willing publisher, take on the task, and in thatway allow the writer’s narrative world to be shared by others.
For Edith Grossman there are two qualities that mark a good translationand two fundamental questions to be answered. First of all, does reading thetranslation move you to find out more about the original author and their
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work? And secondly, do you forget that it’s a translation and simply become
involved in the fiction or the poem that you’re reading? “In a way,” says
Grossman, “those two things move in opposite directions—one towards theoriginal and the other towards the end result of the translation” (NPR).
I would love to think that The Bluest Eye could be read, would be read,by ever so many readers, not simply because Toni Morrison is a Nobel Prizewinner but because her novels provide such a provocative and rich
examination of lived existence in times and places that we must continue toexplore. Coming to the works of Toni Morrison not as a specialist but
rather as a reader and translator, I can only hope that raising the level ofawareness of the importance and critical role of literary translation in
relation to her work, I will have achieved my objective.
The words of Trudier Harris from 1994 have indeed proved to beprophetic:
Morrison’s winning of the Nobel Prize in Literature, therefore, was theofficial inscription of a worldwide recognition and appreciation of theintellectual stimulation and awesome power of her writing. As probably
the most well-known of African American writers and perhaps even of
all contemporary American writers, Morisson has provided for international readers an entrée into American culture and specifically into
African America culture. (…) The Nobel Prize in literature will meanthat Morrison’s works will be ever more popular and ever more available(Harris, 10).

Morrison’s popularity is certainly well established. The global availability ofher works in translation, however, still requires our attention.

Works Cited
Barstow, Jane Missner. “At the Intersection: Race, Culture, Identity, and the
Aesthetics in The Bluest Eye.” Print.
Bassnett, Susan, and André Lefevere, eds. Translation, History and Culture.
London and NewYork: Pinter Publishers, 1990. Print.
Bassnett, Susan. Reflections on Translation. Toronto: Multilingual Matters,
2011. Print.
—. Translation Studies. New York: Routledge, 2002. Print.

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Bloom, Harold. Bloom’s Guides: Toni Morrison’s “The Bluest Eye.” New York:Infobase, 2010. Print.
Brower, R.A., ed. On Translation. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1959. Print.
Carlacio, Jami L., ed. The Fiction of Toni Morrison. Reading and Writing on
Race, Culture, and Identity. Urbana, Illinois: National Council of Teachersof English, 2007. Print.
Edgerton, Susan Huddleston. “Re-membering the Mother Tongue(s): Toni
Morrison, Julie Dash and the Language of Pedagogy.” Cultural Studies 9:2(1995): 338–363. Print.
Elsa et Léa. “Entretien avec Jean Guiloineau, traducteur.” Traduction, 14 January 2011. Web. 29 June 2013.
Harris, Trudier. “Toni Morrison: Solo Flight through Literature into History.”
World Literature Today, 68:1 (1994): 9–14. Print.
Jakobson, Roman. “On Linguistic Aspects of Translation.” In On Translation.
Vol 3, 1959: 30–39.
Le Clair, Thomas. “The Language Must Not Sweat.” New Republic, 21 March
1981: 25–29. Web. 20 Aug 2013.
Lister, Rachel. Reading Toni Morrison. Denver: Greenwood, 2009. Print.
Morrison, Toni. The Bluest Eye. 1970. New York: Vintage. Print.
—. Foreword. The Bluest Eye. 1993. New York: Vintage. Print.
—. L’Oeil le plus bleu. Trans. Jean Guiloineau. Paris: Christian Bourgois, 1994.
Print.
—. The Dancing Mind. New York: Knopf, 1996. Print.
National Public Radio. “Five Books: Edith Grossman on Translation.” 29 December 2012. Web. 6 July 2013.
Nobelprize.org. Web. 10 Aug. 2013.
Royon, Tessa. The Cambridge Introduction to Toni Morisson. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2013. Print.
Schulte, Rainer, and John Biguenet, eds. Theories of Translation: An Anthologyof Essays from Dryden to Derrida. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992. Print.
UTDallas.edu. American Literary Translators Association (ALTA). Web. 4 May
2013.

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Teaching Toni Morrison to a Culturally Diverse Class:Experiences from Bangladesh

Sangita Rayamajhi
The Asian University for Women (AUW) in Bangladesh is a university where
young women students from more than a dozen countries are educated withan objective to become women leaders in their communities. The university isa place where the histories and experiences of collective memory and social,
structural and political inequality are constantly being challenged and redefined. The multicultural setting within the classroom is a pastiche ofhistories, histories which have collided and colluded, of religious dogmatism
which refuse to unravel or ‘unbelieve’ the historical beliefs.
In such a setting I introduced Toni Morrison and her first multi-cultural
book The Bluest Eye. With Morrison there is no clear-cut answer to any ofthe questions regarding her intricately complex works. By discussing issues
and concerns about Pecola and the world she lives in, I draw similarities
with the general beliefs and practices in Asia. This essay is not a comparative study between the literatures or texts of America and Asia. It is more ofa cultural commentary while I attempt to draw Pecola and her community
out of that world and situate them in an altogether different locale and see ifthey function as brilliantly as they do in their own space. This essay attempts to see how The Bluest Eye was perceived by the class at the Asian
University for Women in Bangladesh and how well the idioms, the nuances
and the dynamics of the African American community were recognized as‘almost’ their own.
This book was introduced in the World Literature Class. The students,
twenty-five in all, were of various cultural backgrounds and religious beliefs.
The course was not a comparative study of West and East. The intention
was to make sure the students were able to understand the idioms ofAfrican American writings and see if they could relate to them. They had
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been reading works on minorities, on untouchables, outcastes, tribals, andmarginalized women. During the first day of class on Morrison, one student
commented, “How is it that the violence and victimization that pervades
our part of the world is evident as much in Morrison’s work? Is she not
American?” This question led me to try to contextualize the colonial legacy
and Orientalist notions that Morrison engages in her work.

Contextualizing the Colonial Legacy
Colonial discourse is one topic of discussion that comes up repeatedly inworld literature. Many of the students are from countries where they havedirectly or indirectly inherited the legacy of colonization so that it is notvery difficult to make them capture the nuances and eccentricities of thecolonial world. For every post-colonial writer it is not so much the vision of
the present-future psycho-social and cultural dynamics that is of importance. The post-colonial critic Homi Bhabha suggests that, remembering ‘isnever a quiet act of introspection or retrospection. It is a painful remembering, a putting together of the dismembered past to make sense of thetrauma of the present’ (Bhabha 63). In The Bluest Eye, through the painful
experience of Pecola, Morrison delineates the impact colonization has hadon African American community.
In Asia the cultural context of colonization was built on the idea of the
Orient, “an ideology of racism which upheld white norms as standard anddenigrated our deviance from them” (Tharu 256). Adhering to those Whiteinitiated socio-cultural norms can, and have proven to be destructive to thenative people in many ways. The colonial presence has given rise to tortuous psycho-cultural situations to the once colonized peoples. Clothes, food
habits, and primarily language and literature and their uses, still cause agreat deal of embarrassment to intellectuals, even today. “In writing the‘Orient’ through certain governing metaphors and tropes, Orientalists simultaneously underwrote the ‘positional superiority’ of Western consciousness and, in so doing, rendered the ‘Orient’ a playground for Western‘desire, repressions, investments, projections’” (Said, Orientalism 8). The
literature that subsequently arose was a literary sub-culture that owed its
very existence to the colonial presence. And the culture that arose had tocome to terms with the environment it grew against, so that the existingsocial, economic and political structures were undermined:
British Imperialists justified its continued, and after 1857, militaristicpresence in India (both to its own liberal conscience and to our muted46

TEACHING TONI MORRISON TO A CULTURALLY DIVERSE CLASS - RAYAMAJHI

questioning) through an elaborately developed ideology of racism,
designed to prove Indians (especially the urban upper castes) as weak
and immoral, incapable of just government. Imperial presence wasprojected as necessary, benign, restraining, parental. Obviously thisideology helped entrench colonial presence by convincing the colonizedof their fundamental inhumanity and the consequent need for thecolonizer’s permanent presence. (Tharu 257)

In The Bluest Eye, Morrison prefaces the story with a paragraph from achildren’s book with a family of “Mother, Father, Dick and Jane,” whitecharacters out of a seemingly “green-and-white house” (1). The paragraphposes a challenge to the oft-repeated white world of the White people
depicted either in children’s stories or the grown-up world of Morrison’stime. The colonizing effects of White female beauty upon a black girl andher community, is painted with excruciating beauty. Thus we see thepsycho-social image of the ‘white is beautiful’ belief that is inherited fromthe White colonizers, and which in turn gives rise to the text which for
Morrison was, in a way, to decolonize the black psyche. Pecola’s life is open
to the whims of those people who were introduced to western tradition,
including her own mother. At every step of her life she is faced with attitudes and images based on the myth of white superiority, which leads her toself-hatred. Pecola’s reflections of herself is an example of the self-image sheinherited.
It had occurred to Pecola some time ago that if her eyes, those eyes thatheld the pictures, and knew the sights—if those eyes of hers weredifferent, that is to say beautiful, she herself would be different. Her teeth
were good, and at least her nose was not big and flat like some of those
who were thought so cute. If she looked different, and Mrs. Breedlove
too. Maybe they’d say, “why look at pretty-eyed Pecola. We mustn’t dobad things in front of those pretty eyes.” (46)

In both Western and Asian cultures outer good looks are considered to be
the reflection of inner beauty. In Asia, furthermore the fairness of the skin issynonymous to being beautiful. In South Asia there is an increasing
popularity of Fair and Lovely, a face cream promising to turn your dark skininto a fair and lovely one. This television advertisement is the inheritance ofthe colonized mind which continues to believe that to be dark is to be ugly,
a valorization of what one cannot be. Many Asians still suffer from a low
sense of self-esteem due to the internalization of the colonial culture.

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Similarly, “Pecola’s desire for blue eyes reflects a community absorbed bywhite ideas of what is beautiful. References to idols of white female beauty,
Greta Garbo, Ginger Rogers, Jean Harlow, and to the child icon of beauty,
Shirley Temple, bespeak an obsession with a standard of white female
beauty, that, in turn renders black women and girls invisible” (Pereira 74).
This repressive behavior of disowning the signifiers of the self in both thecultures may, as Patrice Comier Hamilton says, lead to “following an
unhealthy path of self-hatred rather than self love” (116), which is the casewith Pecola.

Caste and Class: Pecola and Velutha
Recalling Velutha, a social outcaste in Arundhati Roy’s God of Small Things,
Pecola is deprived of social identity. Pecola is placed in the identifiablemargin of the class structure in a society of Whites and the Blacks. Velutha
is a social ‘other’ due to his caste, his identity (or lack of it) as an ‘untouchable.’ Pecola yearns to be loved by her own mother Pauline and accepted byher friends and neighbors who are White. Abused and unrecognized for
who she is, she careens into madness. Velutha falls in love with Ammu, awoman of a superior caste and class, a location to which he cannot crossover. He dies, defiled and waiting for that love to be recognized by the restof Ammu’s family. It never happens.
The hierarchy of class and caste are well recognized by the students at
Asian University for Women, since it is a part of their life’s conditioning
and therefore learning. They are aware of its existence and all the characteristics of exclusions and intimidations. God of Small Things itself carries
autobiographical traits of the writer, a recognition of what was a common
practice in the society and continues to be. The social anthropologist Leela
Dube classifies class into three basic categories:
birth status group are exclusion or separation (rules governing marriage
and contact, which maintain distinction of caste), hierarchy (the principleof order and rank according to status), and interdependence (the divisionof labour which is closely tied to hierarchy and separation). These three
analytically separable principles of the caste system operate not so muchthrough individuals as through units based on kinship. (467)

In Roy’s novel, the family refuses to recognize Velutha and Ammu’s
relationship only because of the class and caste difference, defined by theabject poverty that Velutha grew up in. Even Velutha’s father dreads therelationship. Similarly, Geraldine, “the milk brown lady in the pretty gold
48

TEACHING TONI MORRISON TO A CULTURALLY DIVERSE CLASS - RAYAMAJHI

and green house,” calls her “a nasty little black bitch” because Pecola wore a“dirty torn dress” and “muddy shoes with the wad of gum peeping out frombetween the cheap soles” because she reeked of poverty and was black (71).
Inside a classroom, it is very important that the students are able to relate
to the topics under discussion. And this is not an easy task when the homogeneity of the all-women’s class is defied by the socio-cultural and religious
diversity. I also became increasingly aware that the colonial burden, which
they inherited through oral traditions in their own homes and community,
has not yet lifted from the minds of the students. Within the classroom,
therefore, Edward Said’s theory of blending American racism and European
colonialism into one concoction and considering it to be the oppression of
the White over the darker-skinned people is seen when parallels are drawn
between Pecola suffering from White oppression and the colonized peopleof Asia.

The Initiation Story
The Bluest Eye, Morrison’s first book and in itself an initiation story,
describes the coming of age of a little black girl. Pecola’s traumatic
experience is symptomatic of the terror of the first bleeding, the coming ofage by reaching puberty of girls in Asia, especially in South Asia.
Suddenly Pecola bolted straight up, her eyes wide with terror. A
whinnying sound came from her mouth. “What’s the matter with you?”Frieda stood up too. Then we both looked where Pecola was staring.
Blood was running down her legs. Some drops were on the steps. I
leaped up. “Hey. You cut yourself? Look. It’s all over your dress.” A
brownish-red stain discolored the back of her dress. She kept whinnying,standing with her legs far apart. Frieda said, “Oh Lordy! I know. I knowwhat that is!” (19)This first step into womanhood, as it is referred to in most parts of Asia, isindeed traumatic to the young girls because of their lack of knowledge
about the situation, since the mothers and elders do not choose to divulge
the secrets of womanhood to them. The adults demand respect and do not
expect the children especially girls to ask them personal questions about
their own body. What Claudia says is so recognizably true in Asia, “Adults
do not talk to us—they give us directions. They issue orders without providing information” (13). In other words the conversation is so hierarchically structured that the children do not turn around to question or seek an

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answer, again as Claudia notes, “It was certainly not for us to ‘dispute’ her.
We didn't initiate talk with grownups; we answered their questions” (23).
In Asia, once the daughter has her first menstruation, she is secluded
from society, and is not permitted to go out and play openly with otherchildren of the community or to go out with friends without strictly adhering to restrictions of time and place. As Nadeau and Rayamajhi say,“Mothers become extra watchful when their daughters reach puberty. It is amarkedly significant rite of passage in an adolescent woman’s life and in
Asia, a woman who has reached puberty begins to be closely scrutinized byher mother, family members, and society at large. Thus the transition to
womanhood can be difficult” (88).
Therefore, as children, once they understand that the menstruating
blood is a signifier of restrictions, it turns out to be very traumatic for thegirl as well as for the parents. Since most of the women from AUW are fromless privileged strata of the society they were able to identify with thetraumatic experience. The family is afraid that their bodies may be physically violated, that they may lose their standing, that it may mar their social
status, that the daughter may never get a suitable husband, or a good family
for her to get married into. For the characters of Morrison’s world and thestudents of my classroom, the trauma of the first menstruation is the same.

Understanding Violence in The Bluest Eye
Violence, incest and madness are strung together by the central concern ofracism in The Bluest Eye. The issues that Morrison tackles here are notexotic to the Asian mind. Neither are they unrecognizable. Domestic
violence is very common in Asia, especially in Bangladesh, India and Pakistan. Taking the example of Bangladesh, in 2004, the UN published a reporton domestic violence in the country depending heavily on newspaper
reportage (Immigration and Refugee Board of Canada 2004). Sixty-five percent of Bangladeshi males think it is justifiable to beat up their wives, 38
percent have no clear idea what constitutes physical violence and 40 percent
support keeping women socially dormant (Immigration and Refugee Boardof Canada 2004). The same UN report states that another newspaper (TheIndependent) reported that Bangladesh stands second in the world in termsof violence against women in different forms, such as women battering, wife
beating, domestic and dowry-related violence, acid attack, rape, physicaland verbal harassment, fatwa, work place sexual harassment, trafficking andprostitution, polygamy and child abuse (Immigration and Refugee Board of
Canada 2004).
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TEACHING TONI MORRISON TO A CULTURALLY DIVERSE CLASS - RAYAMAJHI

One can take the recent example of the Delhi rape case which created ahuge sensation in India and other countries of the South Asian region. On
December 16, 2012, a 23-year-old girl was raped by four men in a moving
bus in South Delhi. After the incident New Delhi earned the name of “rapecapital.” This was not a lone case. According to Hindustan Times of
September 11, 2013, many women filed complaints of being harassed inpublic places, “and travelling alone especially during the night becomes anightmare,” they said.
Violence within the home is equally prevalent in Asia and as Nadeau andRayamajhi put it:
Women are also subjected to a variety of violence in the home, primarily
as daughters, sisters, and wives. Some of these violent acts include
exchange marriages, marriage to the Quran, marriage to temples, karokari (honor killings), bride-price, dowry, female circumcision, childmarriage, sex selective abortion, and denial of widow marriages. Againin the Muslim community, a daughter is often forced to swear by the
Quran that she would not covet the property of her brothers. Forced
prostitution, mainly through the trafficking of girls and women, is also
common in the region. (95)

When scenes of violence were discussed in the classroom, the impact it
made on these young women was similar to the effect that other Asian
literature which deal with violence had on them. For example, Middle ofSilence, a play by a Sri Lankan playwright Ruwanthi De Chikera, depicts thephysical and emotional cruelty meted out to the wife in the story. Ajith, theAsian husband, slaps Nanda, his wife, but she does not even attempt toward him off. When he shouts at her, “Remember who you are—where youcame from you low down slut. You will never be anything else to me,” shedoes not retaliate in anger but says instead “Don’t hit me” (5). In The Bluest
Eye, Cholly’s brutality towards Mrs. Breedlove is equally violent in its
physicality: “Dropping to his knee, he struck her several times in the face”(33). In Middle of Silence, the man is a paraplegic, and since he is physicallymuted, the anger and abuse lie strongly in his words. In The Bluest Eye, theviolence between Cholly and Mrs. Breedlove is very physical. This is just
one small example of the violence that the students at AUW have either
read about or experienced first-hand in their families and communities.
Acid burns, rape, strangulation, bride burning, feticide, stalking are some of
the increasingly manifested forms of violence in the homes and in thestreets of Asia. Thus, it is never very difficult to make the students under51

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stand how and why violence is perpetrated in certain communities or
towards other communities.

Conclusion
Teaching a text which is not ‘your own’ does have certain limitations.
Personally, I was fearful lest the students at AUW have difficulty in understanding or recognizing the idioms of the West and of African American
historicity. But to my great wonder, they were not only able to understandthe multi-pronged nuances that the multi-cultural text raised, they wereable to pull the issues out of the Western context and place them in an
Asian one. It is greatly satisfying to see how the students captured the sentiments of discrimination, isolation, hierarchy, race, class, beauty, women,body and patriarchy.

Works Cited
Bhabha, Homi. The Location of Culture. London. Routledge. 1994. Print.
Bhuiya, A., Sharmin, T., Hanifi, S.M.A. (2003). “Nature of domestic violenceagainst women in a rural area of Bangladesh: implication for preventive interventions.” Health, Population & Nutrition, 21(1): 48–54. Retrieved fromhttp://www.jhpn.net/index.php/jhpn/article/download/184/179.
Chikera, Ruwanthie De, Middle of Silence. Colombo. ICES. 2001. Print.
Cormier-Hamilton, Patrice. “Black Naturalism and Toni Morrison: The Journey Away from Self-love in The Bluest Eye.” MELUS. 19.4 (Winter 1994):
109–127.Print.
‘Delhi is unsafe for women as on December 16.’ Hindustan Times. New Delhi,
September 11, 2013.
Immigration and Refugee Board of Canada (2004). Bangladesh: Violenceagainst women, especially domestic violence; state protection and resources
available to survivors of abuse. Immigration and Refugee Board of Canada.
BGD42249.E. Retrieved fromhttp://www.unhcr.org/refworld/docid/403dd1e40.html.
Leela Dube. “Caste and Women,” in Women’s Studies in India: A Reader ed.
Mary E. John. New Delhi. Penguin. 2008. Print
Morrison, Toni. The Bluest Eye. New York. Random House. 1970.
Nadeau, Kathleen, and Sangita Rayamajhi. Women’s Roles in Asia. Santa Barbara. Greenwood. 2013. Print.
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National Institute for Population Research and Training (2007). Bangladesh
Demographic and Health Survey (BDHS). The Ministry of Health and Family Welfare. Retrieved from http://www.measuredhs.com/pubs/pdf/GF13/
GF13.pdf.
Pereira, Malin Walther. “Periodizing Toni Morrison’s Work from The Bluest
Eye to Jazz:
The Importance of Tar Baby.”MELUS. 22. 3 (Fall 1997): 71–81. Print.
Roy, Arundhati. The God of Small Things. Penguin Books. New Delhi. 1997.
Print.
Said, Edward. Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient. Harmondsworth.
Penguin. 1991.
Tharu, Susie. “Tracing Savitri’s Pedigree: Victorian racism and the Image of
Women in Indo-Anglian Literature.” Recasting Women: Essays in Colonial
History. Ed. Kumkum Sangari and SudeshVaid. New Delhi. Zubaan. 1989.
254–268.

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Bodies, Music, and Embodied Cognitionin Toni Morrison’s Fictional Works

Anna Iatsenko
When Toni Morrison was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature, Professor
Sture Allén declared during the ceremony that: “In her depiction of theworld of the black people, in life as in legend, Toni Morrison has given the
Afro-American people their history back, piece by piece” (Allén). Indeed,
Morrison’s novels have always been deeply historical, but the history she isconcerned with is not based on the tracing of dates or historical figures, butrather is that of experience. It is well known, for example, that Morrison’s
project in Beloved aims to fill in the gaps left by previous slave narratives,
undertaking to present to readers the psychological and emotional experience of slavery. Morrison deploys this engagement with experience in her
fiction, as Professor Allén says: “[Her] novels invite the reader to partake atmany levels, and at varying degrees of complexity. Still, the most enduring
impression they leave is of empathy, compassion with one’s fellow humanbeings” (Online).
It is this engagement with experience that makes Morrison’s fiction a
privileged site for exploration of how literature can enrich our understanding of being in the world. This will be the point of departure of thepresent essay, in which I look at the strategies that Morrison deploys in her
fiction in order to engage with the reader experientially. I will argue thatwhat makes Morrison’s writing so effective is her use of vocal and musicalstrategies within her language and narration. Furthermore, the presence ofvoice and music in Morrison’s novels also enlightens us on the issues
relating to how we think about being in the world: the characters she creates
and the ways these characters evolve and relate to the worlds they inhabit
are infused with music, leading me to question Merleau-Ponty’s pheno-

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menological outlook on experience as being silently physical and not also
vocal and musical.
One of the most prominent features of Morrison’s fictional works resides
in the fact that she constructs narratives where experience of brutal
environments which the characters inhabit, reveals devastating impacts on
women and children. Starting from her very first novel—The Bluest Eye—which tells the story of Pecola Breedlove’s descent into madness, Morrison
exposes the fact that it is the world in which Pecola evolves that ultimately
drives the character mad. Indeed, this moving narrative denounces thedevastating impact of internalized racial hatred upon the young female
protagonist, whom Morrison describes in the foreword to the 1999 Vintage
edition of the novel as: “the most delicate member of society: a child; themost vulnerable member: a female” (Morrison, Bluest iii). However, there isanother aspect to Morrison’s novel: while denouncing the omnipresence ofthe racial legacy in African American communities, she also outlines theresilience, beauty and immense creativity that are apparent in the musicalityof the language used.
In The Bluest Eye, attention to musical elements are often presented
through the eyes of young Claudia who comments on her fascination withlistening to the exchanges between the adult women: “It was autumn too
when Mr. Henry came. Our roomer. Our roomer. The words ballooned fromthe lips and hovered about our heads—silent, separate and pleasantly
mysterious. My mother was all ease and satisfaction in discussing his coming”(7). Interestingly, Claudia’s fascination is not directed towards what the word“roomer” means, but how it is pronounced. The repetition of the double
vowel “oo” in the words “roomer” and “ballooned” reinforces the accentuation of sound rather than the content of what is heard. Furthermore, thedescription of the presence of the sound as “balloon[ing] from the lips” and“hover[ing] about our heads” links the sound back to the body and creates animpression of the actual pronunciation of, and therefore embodiment, ofsound. A few lines later in the text, Claudia comments:
Frieda and I are washing Mason jars. We do not hear their words, butwith grown-ups we listen to and watch out for their voices…
Their conversation is like a gently wicked dance: sound meets sound,curtsies, shimmies, and retires. Another sound enters but is upstaged bystill another: the two circle each other and stop. Sometimes their words
move in lofty spirals; other times they take strident leaps, and all of it ispunctuated with warm-pulsed laughter—like the throb of a heart made ofjelly. The edge, the curl, the thrust of their emotions is always clear to56

BODIES, MUSIC, AND EMBODIED COGNITION - IATSENKO

Frieda and me. We do not, cannot, know the meanings of all their words,
for we are nine and ten years old. So we watch their faces, their hands,
their feet, and listen for truth in timbre. (9–10)

The simile used in the quotation above to describe the sound of the adults’verbal exchange as a “gently wicked dance”, rather than evoking dance insome abstract sense, takes the discussion of language into the domain of thephysical by comparing it to the dancers’ bodies and the actions dancers
perform via the use of the active verbs such as “meets,” “shimmies,”“curtsies,” and “retires”. This structuring of description with active verbs isrepeated throughout the passage, where active verbs clearly dominate thesyntactical structure of the sentences concerned with the function of verbal
exchange. Here, in a very precise manner, Claudia describes language not as
doing something in the semantic sense—because she is unconcerned withthe meanings of the words the adults are using—but she identifies theimportance of sound within language, which for her is primary to thefunction of the linguistic sign. What Claudia encodes in her speech is not a
direct correspondence between the signifier and the signified; rather, shecreates new connections between words and her experience of their sounds.
In contrast to Saussure, who positions the voice as the vehicle for the
spoken sign and who associates sound with the signifier, Claudia clearly
demonstrates that it is the voice itself that is meaningful and so soundbecomes meaning in the child’s relationship with and experience of thesurrounding world.
Where in The Bluest Eye Morrison sketches out some clues to theimportance of sound and voice with respect to the individual's relationshipto the world, in her subsequent fiction she takes this project a step further
and engages more explicitly with sound. With Beloved she creates a text
where the importance of sound and music is problematized on a number ofinteresting levels both with respect to content and form of narration. From
its inception, the project of Beloved is vocally oriented as it attempts to fill
the gaps left by the unvoiced past of slavery. When writing about Beloved,
Jill Matus states that:
Morrison’s interviews from 1987–89, when Beloved was being written andpublished, attest to her own passionate reclamation of an unspeakablehistory. Beloved is born from her recognition that traditional slave
narratives always ‘drew a veil’ over the shocking and painful incidents of
their past, pleading that such things were too terrible to relate. (104)57

LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

Indeed, Matus is absolutely right and texts such as Harriet A. Jacobs’s
Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl (1861) perfectly illustrate the silences that
Morrison’s project attempts to fill.1 In Beloved, the importance of the voice
becomes quite literal—Morrison identifies the silences with respect to thetrauma of slavery and, simultaneously, acknowledges and acts upon theneed to voice these silences in her writing in order to work through thetrauma of slavery. Thus, Beloved is conceived as a project which allows
Morrison to “act out and work through” issues that have been historically,
narratively, and collectively disavowed.
Morrison tackles the problem of what she calls “national amnesia” byconstructing a narrative, which permits the vocal expression of the experience of slavery. However, she does not do this indirectly, by telling her
reader what slavery feels like in a remote, disengaged manner; rather, shetells a story that involves the reader in the experience itself. This involvement is created through Morrison’s use of embodied cognition, which
proposes that the ways we make meaning of the world is rooted within ourphysical body. In Beloved, a number of Morrison's narrative techniques
foreground the importance of the body in experience: the main healer of thenarrative—Baby Suggs—heals the community by connecting people to theirbodies rather than religious faith; Sethe’s memory-triggers are primarily
physical rather than mental operations and these set in motion the flashbacks that structure the narrative; the effectiveness of Beloved as a characteris due to the fact that she is an embodied ghost whose presence is graphically physical throughout most of the novel. However, for Morrison, it is
not simply the flesh that apprehends the outside world—her conceptualization of embodied cognition positions the body as speaking andsinging and it is these voices that must be taken into consideration.
One of the most striking and clear examples in Beloved is the role ofBaby Suggs and, in particular, her preaching in the clearing. This scene is set
1

When telling of her enslavement and escape from slavery, Harriet never puts intowords the feelings she associates with the experiences she describes. Her narrative is fullof detailed descriptions of actions, or pain inflicted on her, but she does not comment on
any of the psychological aspects of her life nor does she tell the reader her own feelings.
One particularly striking example of such absence in the narrative is located in thechapter entitled “A Loophole of Retreat” where Jacobs describes being confined in agarret—a space nine feet long and seven feet wide with three inches at the highest point
between the floor and the roof. Able to crawl around this space only occasionally, Jacobs
spends a few years in this space suffering frostbite in winter and strenuous heat in thesummer, listening to the voices of her own children without being able to communicate
with them. While she mentions a few words about her physical condition, she never says
anything concerning the emotional pain that the situation inflicted upon her.

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in an extremely noisy atmosphere where children, women and men create ajoyous cacophony at the preacher’s command. This scene is immediately
followed by a moment of silence in which Baby Suggs explains the importance of their bodies in connection to happiness: “She told them that the
only grace they could have was the grace they could imagine. That if they
could not see it, they would not have it” (103). This surprising sentence
reported by the narrator with rather abstract and religious overtones is thenrendered very concrete in direct speech quoting Baby Suggs’ own words:“Here,” she said, “in this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs;
flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they
do not love your flesh. They despise it. […] No more do they love theskin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do notlove your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave
empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them.
Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face‘cause they don’t love that either. You got to love it, you! […] This is
flesh I’m talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that needto rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms,
strong arms I’m telling you… The dark, dark liver – love it, love it, andthe beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyes or feet. Morethan lungs that have yet to draw free air. More than your life-holding
womb and your life-giving private parts, hear me now, love your heart.
For this is the prize.” Saying no more, she stood up then and dancedwith her twisted hip the rest of what her heart had to say while the others
opened their mouths and gave her the music. Long notes held until the
four-part harmony was perfect enough for their deeply loved flesh.
(emphasis in the original, 103–4)

After the deep silence in the clearing, Baby Suggs uses the power of her
rhetorical language to assemble the bodies fragmented by the experience ofslavery. Her use of the words “here” and “yonder” create a space physically,
but also semantically where the assembling becomes possible. However, it is
the reported dancing and singing that validate the words uttered by Baby
Suggs: she dances to confirm her words and those present sing along with
her to confirm their understanding of her words. In this particular instance,
the voices come together to identify and validate the content of what wassaid and literally to embody the words of freedom uttered by the healer.
For the character of Beloved, the voice is also important and she isconstructed in a way that makes her physical presence undeniably vocal.
The narrator comments on the first words she speaks as follows: “… her
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voice was so low and rough each one looked at the other two. They heard
the voice first later the name” (62). Here, as in The Bluest Eye, the voice
clearly precedes the semantic content of what is being said. Furthermore,when Sethe finally makes the link between Beloved and her own deaddaughter, the moment of realization is framed by Beloved’s voice singing
the song Sethe had made up for her children:
When the click came Sethe didn’t know what it was. Afterward it was
clear as daylight that the click came at the very beginning—a beat,almost, before it started; before she heard three notes; before the melody
was even clear. Leaning forward a little, Beloved was humming softly.
It was then, when Beloved finished humming that Sethe recalled theclick – the settling of pieces into place designed and made especially forthem. […] She simply turned her head and looked at Beloved’s profile:the chin, mouth, nose, forehead, copied and exaggerated in the hugeshadow the fire threw on the wall behind her. […]The click had clicked; things were where they ought to be or poised
and ready to glide in.
“I made that song up,” said Sethe. “I made it up and sang it to mychildren. Nobody knows that song but me and my children.”Beloved turned to look at Sethe. “I know it,” she said. (206–7)

Here, on a very literal level, Beloved’s singing acts as a memory trigger for
Sethe. Moreover, the way that the narrator comments on Sethe’s experienceof the singing suggests that something happens already “a beat, almost,before it started” (207). However, rather than account for this “click” interms of time, the narrator embeds this elusive moment further into thesinging “before she heard three notes; before the melody was even finished”(207). Here, the time markers “before” appear in relation to music. Thisslippage between the moment that precedes the singing and the moment
when the melody finishes is expressed in terms of the act of singing and nottime per se, pointing to the fact that it is the song itself that leads Sethe tofeel the “click”. Only later is Sethe able to contextualize the experience interms of the song that she sang to her children. In the moment when “theclick” clicked she is fully, experientially, in the music and this allows her torecognize her dead child now embodied in Beloved.
Other extremely powerful moments are present in Beloved when musicmaking voices come to the fore. My examples illustrate the workings of thevoices and music in terms of content, but there is one particular aspect of
the novel that exposes how music also works formally on the narrative level.

60

BODIES, MUSIC, AND EMBODIED COGNITION - IATSENKOThis example is located in the second section of the novel, in the sectionthat closes the monologues performed by Sethe, Denver and Beloved.
Interestingly, the scene is at first presented from the perspective of Stamp
Paid who hears the voices coming from inside 124 Bluestone Road:
What he heard, as he moved toward the porch, he didn’t understand.
Out on Bluestone Road he thought he heard a conflagration of hasty
voices—loud, urgent, all speaking at once so he could not make out what
they were talking about or to whom […] something was wrong with theorder of the words and he couldn’t describe or cipher it to save his life.
All he could make out was the word mine. The rest of it stayed outside
his minds reach […] When he got to the steps, the voices drained
suddenly to less than a whisper […] They had become an occasional
mutter—like the interior sounds a woman makes when she believes she
is alone and unobserved in her work: a sth when she misses the needle’seye; a soft moan when she sees another chip in her one good platter; thelow friendly argument with which she greets the hens. (emphasis in theoriginal, 202–3)

Through this focalization, the narrator suggests that Stamp Paid is looking
to explain the voices he hears in terms of his own experience. The narrator
makes a point of mentioning that Stamp Paid was unable to “cipher” thevoices, giving a clue to his epistemological approach to what he hears.
Indeed, the narrator contextualizes Stamp Paid’s understanding of what heis experiencing as something that is familiar to him – the role of women’svoices of in their everyday chores. But when the text presents us with theactual words that are uttered by the women of 124, the reader quickly
understands the extent to which Stamp Paid misreads the voices. When the
text switches perspective from the outside to the inside of the house, thereader is confronted with the three monologues of Sethe, Denver andBeloved respectively. The monologues, presented in a style that is narratologically close to stream of consciousness technique, make explicit what
the reader has only been guessing up until now—that the women’s deep
personal traumas are finally verbalized. As we read through the monologues
and arrive at Beloved’s words, the lines of print begin to drift apart. Indeed,
Beloved’s monologue is clearly marked visually by the presence of spaces
between phrases and the absence of punctuation and capitalizations which
create a very demanding reading experience: the reader is constantly
solicited by the gaps in the text to create continuity or, on the contrary, toseparate the units of meaning.

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The fourth section, following the three monologues, also begins stylisticallylike the monologues, but quickly turns into something very different.
Beginning in prose, the opening of this section seems to take up Beloved’s
monologue again where she, in the first person, loosely fills in the semantic
gaps that were present in the previous monologue. This rather long paragraph is then followed by a visibly identifiable break and the narrative form
collapses altogether into what looks like poetry. Indeed, the lines of text that
follow are disjointed, with one or two phrases occupying a line. However,rather than considering this form as strictly poetic, I would like to suggest
that, in fact, Morrison chooses the song as the governing formal principle
for this section. In an interview with Marsha Darling, Morrison identifies
this passage as “a kind of threnody” (249).2 A threnody is a lament and,etymologically, the term refers to a “wailing” “song” (Concise OED, 1493).
Moreover, my reason for reading this section of the text as a song is
twofold: first, in order to make sense of the words on the page, the reader
needs to identify the voices and, secondly, the repetition of personal pronouns “I” and “you” clearly marks a chorus where the voices merge to
become completely indistinguishable at the very end of the section:
I drank your blood
I brought you milk
You forgot to smile
I loved you
You hurt me
You came back to me
You left me
I waited for you
You are mine
You are mine
You are mine (255)

Here, the form of the text and the grief expressed by the words of thewomen collaborate to create an account of a very personal, intimate
experience of the enslaved past. The loss of a parent, of a child, of a siblingis conveyed to the reader in a very particular form of engagement. The factthat the text collapses from prose into verse attests to the fact that the2

In Taylor-Guthrie 246-54.

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BODIES, MUSIC, AND EMBODIED COGNITION - IATSENKO

content is indeed “unspeakable”, but by shifting from prose into song thetext sings the “unspeakable.”3
It is clear that Morrison’s engagement with experience permeates her
works. After Beloved, in Jazz, she further elaborates the technique of usingmusic to create a narrative in which form stands equal to meaning. Rather
than telling what the jazz age is about, she constructs a narration which
embodies the music of the period.4 In subsequent novels such as Love, A
Mercy, and Home, Morrison also explores experience in a similar manner.
Indeed, the mastery of language and storytelling that Morrison displays isalways geared towards unveiling, uncovering, exposing some part ofexperiential knowledge that has either been explicitly forgotten or taken for
granted. However, Morrison’s fiction greatly exceeds the scope of thefictional world, because her fiction also has the capacity to teach us something about experience outside the diegetic level of narration. By transcending fictional ontologies, Morrison’s fiction becomes a workshop forexperimentation with our relationship to knowledge where she constantly
questions the process by which we engage with, perceive and create theworld that surrounds us. Such questions have also puzzled phenomenologists who conclude that the body is our primary source of contact with theworld. In his seminal work Phenomenology of Perception, Maurice MerleauPonty clearly states that the body is the primary locus of our experience ofand in the world:
In so far as, when I reflect on the essence of subjectivity, I find it boundup with that of the body and that of the world, this is because myexistence as subjectivity is merely one with my existence as a body andwith the existence of the world, and because the subject that I am, whentaken concretely, is inseparable from this body and this world. The
ontological world and body which we find at the core of the subject are
not the world or body as idea, but on the one hand the world itself
contracted into a comprehensive grasp, and on the other the body itself
as a knowing-body. (475)Whereas for Merleau-Ponty cognition is embodied, it is also silent—he does
not acknowledge the domain of the spoken in the experiential relationship to
the world. Rather, sound is secondary for him and part of a system which3

For other discussions of musical elements in Beloved please consult: Rodrigues “The
Telling of Beloved.” 153-69; Kitts 495-523; Reed 55-71; Eckstein 271-83.
4
For a thorough analysis of the technical musical elements of jazz music used in Jazz
please consult the following: Rodriguez “Experiencing Jazz.” 447-454; Rice 153-180.

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serves only to describe the world, and his interest lies mainly in the“unspoken cogito” (468).5 Morrison’s fiction, however, demonstrates that
embodied cognition relies heavily on sound and musicality. As the narrator of
Beloved states when commenting on the women’s singing during the exorcism of Beloved: “In the beginning there were no words. In the beginning was
the sound, and they all knew what that sound sounded like” (305).
Indeed, Morrison’s fictional works display thorough engagement withelements of voice and music. These elements are present both on the level ofform and content and they collaborate to engage readers aurally with thetexts. It is thanks to this engagement that Morrison is able to communicate
experientially through her texts: rather than telling her readers what it is“like” to experience life from her characters’ perspectives, she createsnarratives which make the readers engage with these experiences directly.
Thus, her texts become sites of embodied knowledge where the aural holds
a privileged position. More globally, however, through her mastery of theaural Morrison re-establishes the importance of the voice and musicalperception in the relationship to the world, suggesting that our knowledge
and experience are also acquired through a deep relationship to sound,
voice and music.

Works Cited
Allén, Sture. “Award Ceremony Speech.” Nobel Lectures, Literature. Nobel
Media AB 2013. Web. 10 Sept. 2013. ‹http://www.nobelprize.org.nobel_
prize/literature/laureates/1993/presentation-speech.html›
Darling, Marsha. “In the Realm of Responsibility: A Conversation with Toni
Morrison” Taylor-Guthrie 246–54.
Eckstein, Lars. “A Love Supreme: Jazzthetic Strategies in Toni Morrison’s
Beloved.” African American Review 40:2 (2006): 271–283. Web. 28 Jan.
2011. ‹http://muse.jhu.edu›.
Jacobs, Harriet A. Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. Written by Herself. Boston: Published for the Author, 1861. Documenting the American South.
2003. University Library, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.
Web. 10 Sept. 2013 ‹http://docsouth.unc.edu/fpn/jacobs/jacobs.html›
5

For a more detailed discussion of Merleau-Ponty’s problematic use of “unspoken
cogito” see Shusterman 49-76.

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Kitts, Lenore. “Toni Morrison and ‘Sis Joe’: The Musical Heritage of Paul D.”
MSF Modern Fiction Studies 52:2 (2006): 495–523. Web. 28 Jan 2011‹http://muse.jhu.edu›
Matus, Jill. Toni Morrison. Manchester: Manchester UP, 1998. Print.
Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. Phenomenology of Perception. Transl. Colin Smith.
London: Routledge, 2002. Print.
Morrison, Toni. A Mercy. London: Vintage, 2009. Print.
—. Beloved. London: Vintage, 2005. Print.
—. Home. New York, Toronto: Knopf, 2012. Print.
—. Jazz. London: Vintage, 2005. Print.
—. Love. London: Vintage, 2004. Print.
—. The Bluest Eye. London: Vintage, 1999. Print.
Peach, Linden, ed. New Casebooks: Toni Morrison. New York: St. Martin’s Press,
1998. Print.
Reed. Roxanne R. “The Restorative Power of Sound: A Case for Communal
Catharsis in Toni Morrison’s Beloved.” Journal of Feminist Studies in
Religion 23:1 (2007): 55–71. Web. 28 Jan. 2011. ‹http://muse.jhu.edu›.
Rice, Alan J. “’It Don’t Mean a Thing If It Ain’t Got That Swing’: Jazz’s Many
Uses for Toni Morrison.” Saadi A Simawe 153–180.
Rodrigues, Eusebio L. “Experiencing Jazz.” New Casebooks: Toni Morrison.
Linden Peach 447–454.
—. “The Telling of Beloved.” Journal of Narrative Technique, 21:2 (1991): 153–
169. Web. 03 Dec. 2012 ‹http://www.jstor.org/stable/30225328›.
Shusterman, Richard. Body Consciousness: A Philosophy of Mindfulness andSomaesthetics. Cambridge, Cambridge UP, 2008. Print
Simawe, Saadi A, ed. Black Orpheus: Music In African American Fiction Fromthe Harlem Renaissance to Toni Morrison. New York: Garland, 2000. Print.
Taylor-Guthrie, Danielle, ed. Conversations with Toni Morrison. Jackson: University of Mississippi Press, 1994. Print.

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“You your best thing, Sethe. You are”:
African American Maternal Experience inToni Morrison’s Beloved

Giulia Grillo Mikrut
The complexity of Beloved lies in the problem of “reading silence”(McDermott 75). Historically, silence was one of the primary conditions of
the Black self. Through connection with the past and the Other, Morrison
writes new subjects developing from a process of self-actualisation madepossible thanks to a rejection of silence and an emphasis on vocalization.
The journey towards agency and speech is achieved in various steps.
Fragmentation is the starting point towards self-recovery and wholeness, as
if it were the very first step to recovery.
Regarding African American women’s history and narrative structure,
Toni Morrison says that she thought of her novel Sula as a “cracked mirror,
fragments and pieces we have to see independently and put together”(quoted in Taylor-Guthrie 127). Ron David argues that in Beloved, instead,“everything connects, everything fits—each of the parts contributes to thewhole” (134). The structure of the novel is persistently convincing becauseof the “chain of causality” (David 134) with which Morrison tells the events
represented in the novel, giving more focus to the “people instead of on thewriting” (David 135). Angeletta Gourdine observes that in Beloved, “thevoices of the novel tell their own story, but their story goes beyond thepages that contain it” (16). Morrison’s words need to be read and interpreted several times in order to offer full understanding. As Cynthia Dobbs
argues, “[Morrison’s] prose, ‘never giving you the whole story,’ insists on
the inability of any vocabulary to contain certain experiences. There arealways gaps, excesses, slippages, shifting signs, sounds that we can’t fullyhear” (568). Altogether, these make the structure of the novel very
sophisticated and complex. Every time we reread the novel, a new inter67

LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

pretation becomes possible. If Zora Neale Hurston allows her characters toacquire a voice by depicting the journey of these voices from inaudibility to
expression, Morrison employs a different construction: self-consciousness
and speech are passed from one character to another. The characters’ voices
are never overwhelming, as if “there were no author, no ego, no anything
between the people in the book and us” (David 133). It is perhaps thiscoordination that makes the novel so majestic. In Beloved, the narratorial
voice shifts from omniscient to interior monologue (Pérez-Torres 179).
This is to witness the formation and development of the characters’ individual voices.
Parallel to the existence of a voice is the issue of identity. Henry Louis
Gates, Jr. argues that Black writers “use a language in which blackness
signifies absence,” and, at the same time, he wonders how this Blackness
can become a “source of identity” (quoted in N. Peterson 92). We therefore
understand the implications arising from this matter. How can lack ofsomething become source? In this case, Black writers generate personal
identity from absence. Pérez-Torres detects that this deficiency is alreadytangible at the beginning of the story, where the text describes the house on
124 Bluestone: “124 WAS SPITEFUL” (Morrison, Beloved 3). Baby Suggs, isdead, Howard and Buglar, the sons, gone. Sethe lives in the house with herdaughter, Denver, and a ghost. The reader is given a sense of the impossibility of referring to the past or even the future, as if both are absent: “Theinterplay between presence and absence, accepting and rejecting, appearing
and disappearing, repeats and resurfaces throughout the course of Beloved”(Pérez-Torres 181).
The present becomes the real time frame in the novel. Pérez-Torres calls
it the “static fictional present” (181), and it is deployed to argue the nonexistence of beingness of the past and, simultaneously, of the future. The
future becomes possible only if the characters reveal how “the ‘other’ serves
as an instrument in the construction of the self” (Moglen 17). In Beloved,
temporality and identity equally contribute to the formation of self, which
has moved from fragmentation to wholeness in a process that has enriched
it with speaking agency.
The achievement of female speaking agency and self-realization in thematernal context involves relationships and love. Letting the charactersinteract and engage with each other offers a vivid illustration of their lives.
The text’s engagement with these two topics provides us with a rich set ofsymbols through which to understand the novel. Morrison’s novel is sosymbolically rich that it is open to a variety of interpretations that can
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nevertheless be held simultaneously. This unity from fragmentation, or
wholeness out of diversity is another of the ways in which the novel’s
structure performs my argument about the move from fragmentation towholeness. For instance, at the beginning of part two, the same sentenceappears four times in two pages: “but nobody saw them falling” (Morrison,
Beloved 205–06). Sethe’s strength always allows her to stand up time andtime again and to survive. When Beloved comes back into her life, she
secludes herself and Denver within the walls of 124 Bluestone Road. This iswhy, when the three women—Sethe, Denver, and Beloved—are out on theice skating, the “sky above them was another country” (205). Nobody can
see them skating, nor falling. It may mean that, metaphorically, there is no“other” wanting to see them, as during the Middle Passage and slavery (andstill today), when many white people did not want to acknowledge what was
happening to African Americans, although they witnessed the atrocities
committed against them.
Sethe’s character is a problematic one. She suffers from guilt to a pointthat her whole environment and reality become surreal. For an extended
time, this state of mind brings her to an incongruous account of themeaning of life. In this dream-resembling circumstance, when Beloved
begins to hum Sethe’s song, “the click came” (206). At this point, the reader
needs to take a step away from the story to comprehend what is happening.
The text brilliantly depicts the characters’ psychological wellbeing and
Sethe’s process of self-actualization. Though we haven’t got to self-actualization yet, this click leads to Sethe’s equally problematic absorption by her
child, which is part of her ongoing failure to recognize her self as whole andworthy of love.

Maternal Bonds
Morrison writes the novel with the aim of conveying a way to express some ofthe sorrow brought by slavery and its repercussions on African American
women’s (and maternal) bodies. Slavery is the clearest example of African
Americans’ objectification. In this regard, Ryan McDermott writes about
Sethe’s “divided flesh,” suggesting that Sethe’s divided body metaphorically
reproduces “the structural divisions of slavery, which separates man frombeast and robs the Black female slave of subjectivity while imposing upon her
a distinctly biological expression of otherness” (81). Morrison writes, therefore, about what many other authors prefer instead to forget and ignore, andcreates a marvelous concept in the form of a ghost girl. Accordingly, there are
speculations about Beloved’s identity. Martha J. Cutter asks the same ques69

LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

tion–who Beloved really is–and forms her own interpretation of the two
passages where Beloved talks about the one white man she knew and also
answers Paul D by closing her eyes and letting him know that “[i]n the dark
my name is Beloved” (Morrison, Beloved 88). Cutter connects the twoarguments to the dialogue between Stamp Paid and Paul D, where the former
recounts the story of “a girl locked up in the house with a Whiteman over byDeer Creek. Found him dead last summer and the girl gone. Maybe that’s her.
Folks say he had her in there since she was a pup” (277). In Cutter’s view, thegirl in the latter example is possibly the same girl calling herself Beloved at
124 Bluestone (Morrison, Beloved 88). Again, this is one more possible
interpretation.
Whatever place Beloved came from, I believe that Morrison’s intention isto let us observe the characters’ responses when in the presence of the ghost.
With Sethe, for instance, the text depicts a sense of wholeness at the end of
the story while from the beginning of the novel we first notice how she
sacrifices her own child to prevent her from experiencing similar atrocities
to those inflicted on Sethe by Schoolteacher. Sethe “commits self-murder;
she kills a part of herself by killing her child” (Koolish 185). With time,
Sethe becomes emotionally stronger, and when Edward Bodwin enters theproperty at 124 Bluestone Road and Sethe mistakes him for Schoolteacher,she acts instinctively, knowing that she needs to keep her family safe:
Sethe feels her eyes burn and it may have been to keep them clear that
she looks up. They sky is blue and clear. Not one touch of death in thedefinite green of the leaves. It is when she lowers her eyes to look again
at the loving faces before her that she sees him. Guiding the mare,slowing down, his black hat wide-brimmed enough to hide his face but
not his purpose. He is coming into her yard and he is coming for her
best thing. She hears wings. Little hummingbirds stick needle beaks rightthrough her headcloth into her hair and beat their wings. And if she
thinks anything it is no. No no. Nonono. She flies. The ice pick is not in
her hand, it is her hand. (308–09)

Her option is no longer to kill herself due to the murder of her own child.
She is instead ready to attack the white man—the oppressor—“claiming forherself a kind of wholeness by attacking, instead of a part of her self, a whiteman, emblem of the original threat” (Koolish 185). Regarding the passage
above, Kimberly Chabot Davis writes:70

“YOU YOUR BEST THING, SETHE. YOU ARE”- GRILLO MIKRUT

one way to free oneself from the horrors of the past is to reenact andreconfigure the past in the present, as Sethe does with an ice pick at theend of the novel, attacking not her own children this time but the white
man Bodwin, whom she perceives as a reincarnation of her slave master
Schoolteacher. (251)

At first, we read the Bodwins as a family against slavery and segregation.
However, at the end of the novel they are depicted differently; they are not
the abolitionists we thought they were originally. At the same time, this
explains that they are not exempt from racism and the belief that Black
people are subservient to whites either. After hearing Nelson Lord telling
her to take care of herself, Denver decides to find a job and therefore visits
Mr. and Mrs. Bodwin (Morrison, Beloved 297). When she is about to exit
their home after having spoken to the maid, Janey Wagon, a statuettecatches Denver’s eye:With those assurances, Denver left, but not before she had seen, sitting
on a shelf by the back door, a blackboy’s mouth full of money. His head
was thrown back farther than a head could go, his hands were shoved in
his pockets. Bulging like moons, two eyes were all the face he had above
the gaping red mouth. His hair was a cluster of raised, widely spaced
dots made of nail heads. And he was on his knees. His mouth, wide as acup, held the coins needed to pay for a delivery or some other small
service, but could just as well have held buttons, pins or crab-apple jelly.
Painted across the pedestal he knelt on were the words “At Yo Service.”(300)

This figurine might represent a Black boy with a possibly lynched head andhis nail heads might represent African American hair. The passage above
cannot be used to prove that the Bodwins are Abolitionists or not. What thepassage expresses is racism in the culture of the community. Although thisstatue is a reminder of slavery, Denver is certain that the Bodwins are goodpeople. Janey Wagon tells her, “[t]hey used to be good whitefolks,” to which
Denver answers, “[o]h, yeah. They good. Can’t say they ain’t good. I
wouldn’t trade them for another pair, tell you that” (300).
Although Sethe does not know about the statuette, when Edward Bodwin
rides on his cart to her residence at 124 Bluestone Road, Sethe has the “chance
to play out the scene with a completely different outcome” (Koolish 186). By
letting her defeat a white man, Sethe is offered the opportunity, and terms, tothink about her own situation—saving her family from the white oppressor—
and metaphorically to take revenge on behalf of all the African American
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people, the “sixty million and more” (Morrison, Beloved, Dedication Page)
who died during the Middle Passage. Thus, the author returns the power ofagency to Sethe, who can overcome her painful past. Not to be forgotten isthat the ice pick passage is an enactment of extreme violence and it is Ella
who brings wisdom to the situation stressing that violence is not the answer,
not even against the white man.
In Beloved, Morrison attempts to recreate, or, as Setefanus Suprajitno
writes, “reconstruct her women to be women, and not just mothers anddaughters” (64). Sethe becomes a woman by addressing and ‘rememorying’her difficult maternal history. In Beloved, vocalization becomes the way
through which women give a voice to their bodies, they finally embrace theact of speech, and become active subject in the society. This is how theAfrican American female characters in novel learn how “to talk back” in an
attempt to express their transition from object to subject: “the liberated
voice” (hooks, Talking 9).

The Maternal Body
As Morrison has explained, the starting point of Beloved is the necessity tokeep in touch with ancestors. In the foreword to James Van Der Zee, Owen
Dodson, and Camille Billops’ book, Morrison states that “[t]he ancestor
lives as long as there are those who remember” (quoted in Van Der Zee,
Dodson and Billops, “Foreword”). The novel is the result of a memory
reconstruction process. Morrison often talks about “national amnesia”(quoted in Taylor-Guthrie 257) when discussing the effects and repercussions of slavery as something that neither Blacks nor whites want toremember. Therefore, to overcome this amnesia, Morrison wrote a novel
where a female slave, Sethe, articulates her pain about the institution ofslavery in relation to her role as mother. The act of remembering to achieve
healing is painful. Morrison underlines this in the novel when Amy Denver,a white woman who helps Sethe deliver her fourth child on the banks of the
Ohio River, tells her, “[a]nything dead coming back to life hurts”(Morrison, Beloved 42). The vision of her children helps Sethe overcome thepain inflicted on her body by schoolteacher and his nephews. Motherhood
is most important to Sethe, who is indisputably convinced that her children
are her “best thing” (321). Beloved thus “explores maternity, not from amale point of view or as a cultural projection, but as an interface between
life and death from within a mother” (Demetrakopoulos 53). Terry Caesar
explains that in Beloved, the concepts of motherhood and of being an

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enslaved woman “profoundly contaminate” each other and so become“virtually inseparable” (113).
When Paul D returns to Sethe’s life, she is a free woman, althoughisolated in the house on 124 Bluestone Road and entrapped in the painful
memories of her past, which she tries to keep at bay as much as she can.
Sethe’s first feeling of freedom is described when she reaches Baby Suggs in
Ohio and lives there with her children and Baby Suggs for twenty-eightdays. Although it is rather arduous, during these four weeks, Sethe is able toclaim herself for the very first time. She thinks, “[f]reeing yourself was one
thing; claiming ownership of that freed self was another” (Morrison,
Beloved 111–12). By crossing the Ohio River, Sethe crossed the borders
between slavery and freedom, life and death, present and past, as well as“being and non-being” (Gourdine 22).
The ambivalence of “being and not being,” of remembering and forgetting as well as of burying and reviving is rather problematic in this novel. To
speak the “unspeakable thoughts, unspoken” (Morrison, Beloved 235)
becomes a way in which the novel revives the buried. To forget and toremember is one of the book’s complex themes. Rushdy comments, “[t]his
tension between needing to bury the past as well as needing to revive it,
between a necessary remembering and an equally necessary forgetting,exists in both the author and her narrative” (569). When discussing thesignificance of forgetting in Beloved, Susan Bowers refers to the term“eschaton” (Bowers, Beloved 60), which Douglas Robinson explains as “thatwhich stands between the familiar and whatever lies beyond” (xii–xiii).
Comparing the “eschaton” to a veil, Bowers argues that the “eschaton” in
Beloved is forgetting (60).
Morrison often explains her duty to write “from a double perspective ofaccusation and hope, of criticizing the past and caring for the future” (qtd. in
Rushdy 575). In Beloved, her aim is to tell “a story not to pass on” (Morrison,
Beloved 323) and initiate a process of historical recovery. The novel enables
the characters to retell a story from the perspective of “African Americans as
subjects rather than as objects” (Pal 2441), giving them agency. To do so,
African Americans must be cleaned of the metaphoric dirt that white people
have placed on their bodies, “dirtying them so badly they couldn’t likethemselves anymore. Dirtying them so bad they forgot who they were andcouldn’t think it up” (paraphrasing Morrison, Beloved 295). Dirt, in thissense, can be interpreted as the horrific experiences to which African Americans were subject during the Middle Passage and slavery. Bowers therefore

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wonders how it is possible to transform dirtiness into knowledge, and also
how to give voice back to Black women:
The struggle of Beloved’s characters to confront the effects of thebrutality and to recover their human dignity, their selves “dirtied” byWhite oppression—to transform their experiences into knowledge—ispresented in the form of a slave narrative that can be read as a model forcontemporary readers attempting to engage these brutal realities.
(Bowers 62)

Fear of dirtiness is something that many characters in the novel experience.
The institution of slavery “dirtied” Sethe, Denver, Paul D, Baby Suggs, Ella,and Stamp Paid in a way that becomes impossible for them to forget.
However, as Bowers argues, “[r]emembering is part of reversing the ‘dirtying’that robbed slaves of self-esteem” (63) and it is precisely what the text allows
the characters to do. By claiming the need to remember in order to forget, thecharacters enact a process of self-healing. In Sethe, maternal bonds help her
character enact this self-healing process. Her love for her children—maternallove—is “too thick” (Morrison, Beloved 193). Firstly, it helps her deny thenecessity of remembering the past; then it changes her life and makes her feelthe need to initiate the recovery process. In this novel, the process of claiming
the female self fortifies the power of motherhood.
Morrison focuses on three women in Beloved: Sethe, a mother, andBeloved and Denver, her two daughters. The author uses feminine traits to
depict events that occur in the text: sisterhood and daughterhood (Denverand Beloved), pregnancy, the menstrual cycle, and childbirth (Sethe) aresegments that can be symbolically identified. As an example, when Sethe
sees Beloved for the first time, her “bladder filled to capacity” (61), which
could be seen as a woman’s waters breaking. Together, these segments are
deployed to argue for the significance of slavery and its legacy for Black
female bodies. According to Stephanie Demetrakopoulos, “the institution ofslavery, the atrocity of historical time, denies Sethe her mothering anddestroys the natural cycles of maternal bonding” (52). Slavery strips Baby
Suggs, Sethe’s mother-in-law, of her eight children: “I had eight. Every oneof them gone away from me. Four taken, four chased … Eight children andthat’s all I remember” (Morrison, Beloved 6). Although slavery deprives
both men and women of their rights, women are doubly plagued: they areoppressed due to their gender and deprived of their nurturing capacity, as
in the case of Baby Suggs. The problem of subjectivity and maternal
capacity deprivation are now clear to be central issues in Morrison’s novel.
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“YOU YOUR BEST THING, SETHE. YOU ARE”- GRILLO MIKRUT

Furthermore, Beloved tells the story of Sethe, a slave on a plantation in
Kentucky called Sweet Home. We notice the irony, since the plantation isnever a “sweet” place for the slaves, although, before schoolteacher’s arrival,
the white master, Mr Garner, treats slaves in a more humane way. The
name of the plantation recalls the expression “home sweet home.” At Sweet
Home, slaves are treated fairly well until Mr Garner dies. His successor isschoolteacher, Mr Garner’s brother-in-law. Schoolteacher enacts dehumanizing projects on Black male and female slaves. He studies their“characteristics”—behaving as an amateur scientist—categorizing them as if
they were animals. Sethe and the other slaves are brutally treated andabused, so Sethe decides to escape. Sethe reaches her children and Baby
Suggs in Lorraine, Ohio, and is only able to enjoy twenty-eight days of
freedom before Schoolteacher and the slave catchers find her. At thatmoment, murder corresponds to an instinctive act. She does not apply
reason to it. She just acts.
The woodshed where the murder is committed can be interpreted asslavery’s “central trauma” (Bast 1076). The act gives Sethe equivocal agency
to claim ownership of her children—a love “too thick” (193)—although shecannot at first verbalise her experience in the woodshed. Wyatt writes that
Sethe “finds speech blocked … A gap remains at the heart of the story,
which the omniscient narrator subsequently fills in” (476). At the sametime, this act produces divergent responses in the community and thereader. When reading this specific passage in the novel, I could not avoid
recalling a statement by Amram to Caleb, two characters in Moses, Man of
the Mountain, a novel by Zora Neale Hurston. Amram tells Caleb, “[y]ou
are up against a hard game when you got to die to beat it” (6). I think thesewords can be useful in the process of understanding the murder Sethe
commits, since they evoke both a sense of complete powerlessness—youneed to die to beat the system—and, at the same time, of agency, since to die
is a way to become an active subject. These kinds of feelings were widely
spread among slaves.
When interviewed by Gloria Naylor, Morrison offered her own perspective on the act:
A woman loved something other than herself so much. She had placed
all of the value of her life in something outside herself. That the woman
who killed her children loved her children so much; they were the best
part of her and she would not see them sullied. She would not see themhurt. (Naylor 207)

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Sethe sees her children as her “best thing” (Morrison, Beloved 321). By“nourishing them, she nourishes herself” (Moglen 29). She transfers her
own ego to an external individual, and she will not accept that her own“best things” must submit to the power of schoolteacher. This interpretation allows the reader to understand (at least partly) the murder. Sethe
does not know any better; nobody ever taught her any better. Brought up
without a mother, Sethe acts out her own concept of motherhood. At thattime, in that place, Sethe acts emotionally and thinks that to take away thelife of her “best things” is a better option than to allow Schoolteacher to takethem all back to Sweet Home.
Sethe’s love is “too thick” (193). In my opinion, it is possible to argue
that Sethe’s ego is originally transferred to her children. The final return ofthe ego to the body coincides with the novel’s end. This movement, however, demonstrates that Sethe has forgotten about her own self. It is only
when Paul D eventually comes back to 124 Bluestone Road, telling her,“[y]ou your best thing, Sethe. You are” (322) that the circumstances change.
Doubting Paul D’s words, Sethe answers, “Me? Me?” (322). Lost andconfused, Sethe finally comprehends Paul D’s words, realizing that her own
strength, not her children’s, has guided her all through life: it helped her toclaim herself already once earlier when she reached Ohio and lived as a freewoman for twenty-eight days before schoolteacher’s arrival. Conversely,
after having committed infanticide, Sethe becomes lost again. In this complex novel, her act of qualified, and compromised, love—to kill her child so
as not to let schoolteacher claim ownership—is, from my perspective, thereal starting point of Sethe’s self-actualization. The level of love Sethe feels
for her own children progressively becomes the principal constituent of her
identity fragmentation. Morrison explained this in an interview with Gloria
Naylor: “The best thing that is in us is also the thing that makes us sabotage
ourselves” (qtd. in Lavon 29). Sethe’s love—“the best thing in us”—makes
her sabotage her own existence simply because she will not permit outsideelements to conspire against her best things: her children.
The tragic act that Sethe commits helps us ponder slavery’s dramaticeffects. A daughter deprived of her mother, and simultaneously a mother
who would rather see her own children dead rather than having them live
under the institution of slavery—or, as Demetrakopoulos puts it, “rather
than allow their souls to be devoured by slavery” (52)—becomes a good
example of “paradoxical polarities in motherhood” (53). The act turns Sethe
both into a criminal and a victim.

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Sethe is not only a mother, but a daughter as well. Her mother nurses her
for just two weeks, and after that, she is sent back to work in the plantations;at that point, Nan an African American nursemaid begins to take care of
Sethe. When Sethe’s mother is later hanged, Nan continues to take care ofher. In the novel, Sethe explains her own wish to have been able to be adaughter. She says, “like a daughter, which is what I wanted to be and would
have been if my ma’am had been able to get out of the rice long enoughbefore they hanged her and let me be one” (240). The novel turns from anhistorical novel, it tells the real story of many African American slaves, to anovel about Sethe’s womanhood and her concept of maternal bonds. As
part of this journey, it is possible to identify a movement from internalfragmentation to wholeness and freedom through the activation of aninternal healing process within the female Black subjects in Beloved.
Elizabeth Fox-Genovese argues that Sethe’s act of infanticide possibly is a
“desperate act of self-definition,” since, “by claiming her child absolutely,
she claims her identity as a mother, not a breeder” (112). The terrible act ofkilling her own daughter “forces Sethe’s mind outside of her body”(Demetrakopoulos 53). Sethe’s mind is initially not completely lost,
although she no longer socializes with the outside world—she goes to town
to work—and confines herself within the walls of 124 Bluestone Road, ahouse that by the time Beloved returns is inhabited only by women and is
an example of a female realm. Thus, the text illustrates Sethe’s radical cut
from any possible interactions with the community. Her mind becomes areminder of the atrocious past, and a limitation to seeing a better future.
With Beloved’s appearance, the situation worsens, since Sethe comes tounderstand that the daughter/ ghost embodies the “past that must be
remembered in order to be forgotten; she symbolizes what must be reincarnated in order to be buried, properly” (Rushdy 571), a process she is notready to initiate. Nonetheless, Beloved can be considered the possible
embodiment of the resurrected daughter, as well as the embodiment of thecollective pain of all enslaved African American women who died during
the Middle Passage. Furthermore, Beloved can be seen as Sethe’s punishment for the “moral decision” (Kwang 155) to kill the “crawling-already?
girl” (Morrison, Beloved 110) and comes to symbolize Sethe’s guilt and what“must be reincarnated in order to be buried, properly” (Rushdy 571). The
text exemplifies a possible historical meaning for Beloved in the following
passage:77

LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

Everybody knew what she was called, but nobody anywhere knew her
name. Disremembered and unaccounted for, she cannot be lost because
no one is looking for her, and even if they were, how can they call her ifthey don’t know her name? Although she has claim, she is not claimed.
(323)

Morrison and Knowledge
Up to recently, at the Nobel Museum in Stockholm, Sweden, it was possible
to hear all the Nobel Prize laureates’ speeches. In her speech, Morrison says,“[n]arrative has never been merely entertainment for me. It is, I believe, oneof the principal ways in which we absorb knowledge” (“Morrison”). We canapply these words to the literary function of Beloved. The novel is not only
entertainment, but a way for the author to convey knowledge, in this case,knowledge about slavery, African American women and men, and theirlives during the Middle Passage, slavery, and afterwards. Therefore, if
Morrison conveys her knowledge, facts, and feelings, readers absorb her
knowledge. Furthermore, with her statement, the author places her work ina specific genre that can be viewed as more than fiction. Linda Hutcheon
calls this genre “historiographic metafiction,” since its aim is to “re-write orre-represent the past in fiction and in history” in order to “open it up to thepresent, to prevent it from being conclusive and teleological” (“Historiographic” 834). Kimberly Davis also adds that this genre is fiction-based andcalls it the “fictionality of history.” More importantly, according to Davis,
this genre revises “our sense of what history can mean and accomplish” (K.
Davis, “Postmodern” 242).
According to Jan Furman, Morrison’s Beloved is an “instrument fortransmitting cultural knowledge” (4). The cultural knowledge that Furman
discusses resembles the parameters of postmodernism. However, as Davis
maintains, Morrison “cannot be comfortably grouped alongside postmodern writers such as Milan Kundera or Thomas Pynchon” because her
writing is more “concerned with reconstructing agency and subversive
political content” (254). The narrative of Beloved begins with an historicalevent, followed by a journey causing the main female character to realizethat she can obtain an audible voice. In so doing, Morrison writes “thevoiceless black subaltern back into the history” (Kwang 154).
In the novel, an example of voiceless African Americans is found in Sixo,
one of the male slaves at Sweet Home. Sixo does in fact stop “speaking
English” (Morrison, Beloved 30) when he finally recognizes his powerlesscondition and decides to surrender to the power of the white master. He

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fights hard against the white supremacy and for this reason we can maintainthat his act can be seen as a radical act of resistance making him the least
cowed person at Sweet Home. As Rigney points out, the Black community
was defined by the white, which consequently enforced “the black silence …
through the metaphoric and the actual insertion of the bit in the mouth”(“Breaking” 142). Coming to this realization, Sixo makes the choice of nolonger speaking. By doing so, he expresses the impossibility of reaching
vocal expression. However, later on when he is sent to be burned alive, hesings a song called “Seven-O” (Morrison, Beloved 270). Although knowingthat he will never be able to see his and the Thirty-Mile Woman’s child, hedies laughing, acknowledging that she was able to escape and eventually
give birth to their child. By choosing not to speak, he is defiant until theend, which gives him a partial power over the institution of slavery.
Morrison reveals many injustices in Beloved, stressing not only the physicalabuses suffered by African Americans, but also their psychological devastation (Kwang 159).
According to Kim Kwang Soon, Morrison’s works can be read “within
the context of postcolonial theory which deconstructs Western cultural
hegemony but still affirms a denied or alienated subjectivity and represents
the lived experience of oppressed people” (3). In my view, the focus should
instead be placed on the representation of Black female self-actualizationand historical experience. This conforms to Morrison’s statement thatliterature can be adopted as a way for readers to absorb knowledge.
Morrison’s works, and Beloved is a clear example, possess political meaning,since they describe the social and historical experience of an alienated racial
group. The Blackness that emerges from Morrison’s Beloved is a counter towhites’ historical supremacy. It is an indispensable condition for the emergence of Black women’s identity. Therefore, the text gives voice to those
who could not speak during slavery, allowing them to undergo a processduring and through which they recuperate their voices and develop thestrength to speak for themselves. This is not an easy process, since thesevoices must fight against strongly implemented racial discourses: Black
people are accused of being animals and savages by whites.
The journey that Black people initiate is not only against white supremacy, but also towards reconstitution of “Black identity in a multiculturalcontext” (15). An example of the reconstitution of Black identity is found at
the end of the novel, when Paul D returns to 124 Bluestone Road. He is not
only alarmed by Sethe’s psychological condition, but notices that she has
given up on life. This can be connected to Sethe’s escape from Sweet Home.
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When on the run, Sethe finds herself with breasts full of milk for Beloved,
and with a baby ready to be delivered. At this point, she is not willing togive up on life because she knows that her children need her, both the living
ones and the baby soon to be born. Although the atrocities of her past
return to her mind and heart, she is able to hold them at bay knowing that
her children are safely waiting for her in Ohio. Unfortunately, the circumstances around her contribute to Sethe not knowing how to imagine her
own future (Demetrakopoulos 53). Demetrakopoulos argues that “Sethe
cannot participate in the ongoingness of life; she cannot imagine herself
into history” (53–54). In the novel, her children are viewed as an “integral
part of herself in an implication of ownership” (Mock 118). It is here thatthe word “ownership” raises complicated issues. A condition imposed on
African American people during slavery was that a slave could not own
anything. How can we then discuss ownership? This is possibly one of themost delicate problems depicted in the novel, since during slavery—both in
the novel and in the real lives of African Americans—bodies, children, andmilk were the property of the slaves’ captors, who were the legal sole ownersof these things.
Morrison focuses on the significance of milk. When Sethe is assaulted,
and Schoolteacher’s nephews take her milk—an act not narrated in detail—she does not direct her full attention to how this is done, but rather on the
deprivation of her milk, which is for her children now living in Ohio. One
reason for this could be that the retelling is too upsetting. Mary Jane Suero
Elliott sees the theft of the milk as schoolteacher’s discursive semblance,
which “exploits Sethe as a racial and sexual other in order to re-write her
identity as that of a subhuman creature, bestial rather than human” (185).
By dehumanizing Sethe, schoolteacher emphasizes his ownership of anotherhuman being. He withholds her human values—the difference between aperson and an animal—and makes sure Sethe understands the meaning of
the act, although he does not show any compassion towards her. Schoolteacher thinks she is an animal. His intention is to deprive Sethe of the only
source of humanity left in her: milk. Her milk is the only agency and power
she has left as a mother. If it is taken away from her, her children will starve.
At the same time, Sethe also reproduces this logic – she sees her children as
entities that she owns – this is the dilemma–or one of them–of the novel.

Conclusion
As Timothy B. Powell observes, “Toni Morrison raises Afro-American
fiction out of the black (w)hole, giving us instead a (w)holy black text”
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“YOU YOUR BEST THING, SETHE. YOU ARE”- GRILLO MIKRUT(759). Eventually the stories narrated and heard provide clarity andunderstanding, both of which augment the intensity of the novel’s rhythm.
Bowers maintains that “[b]y speaking the horror, Morrison assumes andhelps to create the community that can hear it and transform it” (75). The
novel shows how enslavement reduces individuals to objects in the “external world,” as well as fragmented selves in the “individual’s internal world”(Schapiro 194). Sethe cannot allow her children to experience slavery. Thus,
when explaining why she killed Beloved, Sethe explains, “[i] f I hadn’t killed
her she would have died and that is something I could not bear to happen toher” (Morrison, Beloved 236). Slavery killed the selves and bodies of many
Black people. In Beloved, Morrison distinctly condemns the institution ofslavery as well as its aftermath. She allows Sethe to claim back her own self
in order to acquire agency, of which Black women and men were deprived
during slavery. The reclaiming process Sethe undergoes in the novel gives
her better prospects for the future. In addition, what it mostly gives her isspeaking agency to recount the past in her own terms so the present
becomes more bearable and planning the future more feasible. This process
is unfortunately not easy. Perhaps this is why Morrison ends the novel withthe word “Beloved,” suggesting that “the past is a lasting presence, wanting
to be resurrected” (K. Davis, Postmodern 251), and, as Sethe teaches us,“anything dead coming back to life hurts” (Morrison, Beloved 42).
Beloved is a literary masterpiece, partly due to the plot’s structuralorganization. Morrison begins the narration by illustrating a little known
historical event, which introduces the reader to the brutality of slavery; shethen shifts the focus to the consequences of dismemberment among theBlack female and male characters. Since slavery turned Black subjects intomere flesh, Morrison aims to re-allocate agency to these subjects—female
subjects, specifically—and to transform them into remembering subjects.
By displacing the attention to the psychological aftermath of slavery,
Morrison provides a story to pass on so as not to let the unspeakable
thoughts be left unspoken (Beloved 235).

Works Cited
Andrews, William L., and Nellie Y. McKay, eds. Toni Morrison’s Beloved: A
Casebook. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1999. Print.

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Bast, Florian. “Reading Red: The Troping of Trauma in Toni Morrison’s Beloved.” Callaloo 34.4 (2011): 1069–86. Print.
Bowers, Susan. “Beloved and the New Apocalypse.” Journal of Ethnic Studies
18.1 (1990): 59–77. Print.
Caesar, Terry Paul. “Slavery and Motherhood in Toni Morrison’s ‘Beloved.’”
Revista de Letras 34 (1994): 111–20. Print.
David, Ron. Toni Morrison Explained. New York: Random House, 2000. Print.
Davis, Cynthia J. “Speaking the Body’s Pain: Harriett Wilson’s Our Nig.” African American Review 27.3 (1993): 391–404. Print.
Davis, Kimberly Chabot. “‘Postmodern Blackness’: Toni Morrison’s Beloved andthe End of History.” Twentieth Century Literature 44.2 (1998): 242–60. Print.
Demetrakopoulos, Stephanie A. “Maternal Bonds As Devourers of Women’s
Individuation in Toni Morrison’s Beloved.” African American Review 26.1
(1992): 51–59. Print.
Dobbs, Cynthia. “Toni Morrison’s Beloved: Bodies Returned, Modernism Revisited.” African American Review 32.4 (1998): 563–78. Print.
Elliott, Mary Jane Suero. “Postcolonial Experience in a Domestic Context:
Commodified Subjectivity in Toni Morrison’s Beloved.” MELUS 24.3–4(2000): 181–202. Print.
Fox-Genovese, Elizabeth. “Unspeakable Things Unspoken: Ghosts and Memories in Beloved.” Bloom, Modern Critical Interpretations: Toni 97–114.
Furman, Jan. Toni Morrison’s Fiction. Columbia: U of South Carolina P, 1996.
Print.
Gourdine, Angeletta. “Hearing Reading and Being ‘Read’ by Beloved.” NWSA
10.2 (1998): 13–31. Print.
hooks, bell. Ain’t I a Woman? Black Women and Feminism. Boston: South End,1981. Print.
—. “Beloved Community: A World without Racism.” Steger and Lind 308–12.
—. Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center. Boston: South End, 1985. Print.
—. Talking Back: Thinking Feminist Thinking Black. Boston: South End, 1989.
Print.
—. “Writing the Subject: Reading The Color Purple.” Gates, Reading 454–71.
—. Yearning: Race, Gender, and Cultural Politics. Boston: South End, 1990. Print.
Hurston, Zora Neale. Moses, Man of the Mountain. 1939. New York: Harper,
2008. Print.
Hutcheon, Linda. ”Historiographic Metafiction.” McKeon 830–50.
Koolish, Linda. “‘To Be Loved and Cry Shame’: A Psychological Reading ofToni Morrison’s Beloved.” MELUS 26.4 (2001): 169–95. Print.

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Kwang, Kim Soon. “The Location of Black Identity in Toni Morrison’s Fiction.”
Diss. Purdue U, 2010. Print.
Lavon, Maxine Montgomery. Conversations with Gloria Naylor. Jackson: U ofMississippi P, 2004. Print.
McDermott, Ryan P. “Silence, Visuality and the Staying Image: The ‘Unspeakable Scene’ of Toni Morrison’s Beloved.” Angelaki 8.1 (2003): 75–88. Print.
McKeon, Michael, ed. Theory of the Novel: A Historical Approach. Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins UP, 2000. Print.
Mock, Michele. “Spitting out the Seed: Ownership of Mother, Child, Breasts,
Milk, and Voice in Toni Morrison’s Beloved.” College Literature 23.3
(1996): 117–26. Print.
Moglen, Helene. “Redeeming History: Toni Morrison’s Beloved.” Cultural Critique 24 (1993): 17–40. Print.
Morrison, Toni. Beloved. 1987. London: Vintage, 2005. Print.
—. “Toni Morrison Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech 1993.” Stockholm Nobel
Museum, Stockholm, Sweden.
Naylor, Gloria. “A Conversation: Gloria Naylor and Toni Morrison.” TaylorGuthrie 188–218.
Naylor, Gloria and Toni Morrison. “A Conversation.” Southern Review 21.3
(1985): 567–93. Print.
Pal, Sunanda. “From Periphery to Centre: Toni Morrison’s Self Affirming Fiction.” Economic and Political Weekly 29.37 (1994): 2439–443. Print.
Pérez-Torres, Rafael. “Between Presence and Absence: Beloved: Postmodernism,
and Blackness.” Andrews and McKay 179–203.
Peterson, Nancy J. Toni Morrison: Critical and Theoretical Approaches. London:
Johns Hopkins UP, 1997. Print.
Powell, Timothy B. “Toni Morrison: The Struggle to Depict the Black Figure on
the White Page.” Black American Literature Forum 24.4 (1990): 747–60.
Print.
Rigney, Barbara Hill. “Breaking the Back of Words: Language, Silence and thePolitics of Identity in Beloved.” Solomon 138–47.
—. The Voices of Toni Morrison. Columbus: Ohio State UP, 1991. Print.
Robinson, Douglas. American Apocalypses; The Image of the End of the Worldin Literature. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1968. Print.
Rushdy, Ashraf H. A. “Daughters Signifyin(g) History: The Example of Toni
Morrison’s Beloved.” American Literature 64.3 (1992): 567–97. Print.
Schapiro, Barbara. “The Bonds of Love and the Boundaries of Self in Toni Morrison’s Beloved.” Contemporary Literature 32.2 (1991): 194–210. Print.

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LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORYSuprajitno, Setefanus. “Reconstructing Womanhood in Toni Morrison’s Beloved.” K@ta 2.2 (2000): 60–64. Print.
Taylor-Guthrie, Danille, ed. Conversations with Toni Morrison. Jackson: U ofMississippi P, 1994. Print.
Van Der Zee, James, Owen Dodson, and Camille Billops, eds. The Harlem Bookof the Dead. New York: Morgan and Morgan, 1978. Print.
—. “Foreword.” Van Der Zee, Dodson, and Billops Foreword.
Wyatt, Jean. “Giving Body to the Word: The Maternal Symbolic in Toni Morrison’s Beloved.” PMLA 108.3 (1993): 474–88. Print.

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The Black Mother as Murderess:
William Faulkner’s Requiem for a Nun
and Toni Morrison’s Beloved

Lucy Buzacott
In William Faulkner’s 1950 novel Requiem for a Nun, a black woman
employed by a white family to care for their children declares: “I’ve tried
everything I knowed. You can see that” (168), and walks into room of theinfant for whom she is employed to care and smothers her to death. The
murder of this white child at the hands of her black caretaker is revelatory
in that it turns the mammy figure on her head. The figure of the sexless,selfless, maternal mammy has long been a central trope in apologias forslavery and segregation in the American South. Arguably, mammy’s most
famous appearance in fiction is in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind,and her prevalence in fiction and popular culture continues, most recently
in Kathryn Stockett’s novel The Help and the subsequent movie adaptation.
Faulkner’s representation of Nancy Mannigoe, the mammy as murderess,
complicates traditional versions of mammy. Far from the abundant anddevoted mammy who tended to Scarlett O’Hara, here, in Faulkner’s work isa mammy who enacts violence on the body of a white infant. This essay
considers Nancy’s murder of the white child in her care in conversation
with Sethe’s murder of her child in Toni Morrison’s Beloved. What do theseacts of infanticide reveal about black maternity during and after slavery andwhat changes when is not mother, but mammy that kills? These questions
are bound to issues of black maternal potency and the agency of black
women during and after slavery.
While both Nancy and Sethe murder a child in their care, theircharacterisations are, in many ways, vastly different. Sethe is an ex-slave,
devoted to her biological children and cognisant of their precarious position
within Southern society. Sethe kills her biological child, a baby girl, rather
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than see her return to slavery. Sethe’s murder, whilst horrific, has been readby critics as an act of both maternal potency and maternal devotion. Sethe’smurder is born out of her experience of slavery’s horror and her desire toprotect her child from these systems. In Requiem, Nancy Mannigoe is an exprostitute, ex-drug addict who murders not her biological child, but thewhite baby girl to whom she is mammy. Yet in Faulkner’s novel, like
Morrison’s, Nancy’s murder is to be understood as an act of love, rather
than an act of violence. It is Gavin Stevens, Nancy’s white lawyer, who, by
the conclusion of the novel, has recast Nancy’s act of infanticide as theultimate sacrifice a black woman can make on behalf of the white family.
Nancy has ‘saved’ the white child from her reckless mother by killing her.
Both Beloved and Requiem circle around the key act of infanticide. In
both novels a black woman murders a child in her care and what follows is adissection of black maternal grief, power, and love. Yet despite thesesimilarities, very few critics have considered Sethe and Nancy’s infanticide
as comparative. One of the only studies to consider Beloved and Requiem is
Doreen Fowler’s “Reading for the ‘Other Side’: Beloved and Requiem for aNun.” Fowler highlights the similarities between Faulkner and Morrison’s
novels suggesting that in both,a mother or mother-surrogate kills an infant, not out of hate, but out oflove. In both novels, the murderer-mother is black; in both novels, theinfanticide is the central crisis which the novel ceaselessly investigates,
casting forward and back for answers, seeking to see and know. (140)

Sethe murders Beloved to save her from entering the violent system ofslavery, which is, of course, particularly dangerous for black women. And
while Sethe’s act of infanticide is itself horrific, her extreme actions are in
response to the similarly extreme systems of which she is a part. As such,the suggestion that Sethe kills her child in order to “save” her and therefore,that the act of murder is interpreted as an act of love, holds. However, in
Requiem the stakes are vastly different. The child Nancy kills is not her own,
but the daughter of her white employee.
Fowler suggests that, like Sethe, Nancy murders the child in an act oflove and certainly, this is the argument put forth by Gavin Stevens, and it isaccepted by many critics of the novel, including Fowler. However, what istroubling about Gavin’s defence of Nancy is that it considers a white childhaving an absent or ill-equipped mother as a fate worse than death. Nancy
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leave with her lover “children or no children”, abandoning her older son
and taking her infant daughter with her (Requiem 168). It is one thing to saythat slavery is worse than death, in the case of Beloved, but it is anotherthing entirely to say that being the child of an unchaste white mother is also
worse than death. Therefore, equating Nancy’s murder with Sethe’s as anact of maternal love is misleading. Instead, it is necessary to consider
Nancy’s action in conversation with the long history of mythologizing the
mammy figure and to consider how her representation in Requiem in many
ways drastically challenges, but ultimately conforms to the stereotypicalversion of mammy.
The mammy has long been a stock character in the landscape of Southern
fiction; along with the Southern belle and the Southern gentleman, mammy
promoted a distorted view of Southern history that reimagined slavery as abenign institution which comforted and supported happy slaves, who loyally
served their noble white masters and pure white mistresses. Born out of sucha tradition, the mammy was the exemplary “happy slave” figure—loyal,loving, fat, devoted, sexless, maternal. The stereotypic mammy is wholly devoted to the white family who employs her and the white children for whom
she cares. As such, a mammy who murders a white child is an astonishingbreak from her mythical ancestors and sisters. Indeed, the notion of amammy who murders is something that the rich and varied literature
concerning mammy has considered very rarely.
Kimberley Wallace-Sanders in Mammy: A of Race, Gender and Southern
Memory, cites only one example of a murderess mammy and calls thisdepiction “unique” (112). The murdering mammy that Wallace-Sanders
considers appears in Adeline Ries’s 1917 short story “Mammy: A Story.”
Wallace-Sanders argues that “in the array of mammies from the nineteenth
to the twentieth centuries [Ries’s] unique depiction of a killer or brute
mammy seems to have appeared and disappeared in silence” (112).
Wallace-Sanders does not consider, or even mention Faulkner’s renditionof the killer mammy in Requiem despite the fact that at other points herargument considers other Faulknerian mammies. Why does WallaceSanders skip over Nancy? Is it because her murder is reimagined by Stevens
at the end of the novel as less about black subjectivity and more about blacksacrifice on the altar of whiteness? The critical silence surrounding Nancy’s
murder of her mistress Temple Drake’s child reiterates the slipperiness of
Faulkner’s portrayal of the murdering mammy. Nancy is the black mothermade potent through an act of violence, yet she is not actually mother but

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mammy and her potency in Faulkner’s hands only succeeds in bolstering
the white family.
In Ries’s story the (always unnamed) mammy’s biological daughter issold away to the white woman who she has raised. Mammy’s biologicaldaughter is sold to the white woman to become a mammy to the white
woman’s child. The mammy then murders the infant daughter of the white
woman she had raised after her biological daughter dies. The story ends
with the mammy tossing the white baby into the ocean and:hours later, two slaves in frantic search for the missing child foundMammy on the beach tossing handfuls of sand into the air and uttering
loud, incoherent cries. And as they came close, she pointed towards thesea and with the laugh of a mad-woman shouted: “They took her fromme an’ she died!” (523)Wallace-Sanders suggests that in Ries’s story “the symbol of racial harmony[that is, the mammy] is distorted until the fantasy and myth dissolves into a
tragic nightmare” (110). And that “Ries exploits our expectation that the
mammy’s grief, and ostensibly any slave mother’s grief, is impotent. She
then provides a lesson in subversion by reminding her readers thatsometimes there are no black children to whom the mammy can return”(111).
Can we read Nancy like Ries’s mammy? That is, can we read her murderas part of a genealogy of black maternity outraged by slavery and its
aftermath? Such a rendering would align Nancy’s act with both Ries’s
mammy and Morrison’s Sethe. Nancy appears to have no biologicalchildren of her own in Requiem, but what is rarely mentioned by critics ofthe novel is that Nancy has been pregnant at least once and lost the baby she
as carrying as a result of extreme violence at the hands of a nameless whiteman. A man who, when confronted by Nancy for payment for her services
as a prostitute—was asked “where’s my two dollars white man?” (Requiem
110)—then “struck her, knocked her across the pavement into the gutter
and then ran after her, stomping and kicking at her face” until she was“spitting blood and teeth and still saying “it was two dollars more than two
weeks ago and you done been back twice since” (Requiem 110). While thenovel does not make it clear that Nancy is pregnant here and loses her childas a result of this attack, later in the novel her miscarried child is brought up
by Temple Drake, her white employer, who asks her about the child she wascarrying “six months gone” where she “went to a picnic or dance or frolic or

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fight or whatever it was, and the man kicked you in the stomach and you
lost it?” (Requiem 245). Nancy’s position as an ex-prostitute complicates herrole as mammy—here is the mammy who is also Jezebel—that otherproblematic rendition of black femininity promoted by the white South.
Nancy’s sexuality and her fertility are outside the boundaries of the
traditional mammy who is both deeply maternal but essentially sexless.
So how does Nancy’s miscarriage change the way we view her murder ofTemple’s baby? It certainly does not change the fact that the act of infanticide itself is abhorrent, but it does complicate the way that Nancy’s
maternity can be read. Returning to Ries’s “Mammy: A Story”, WallaceSanders argues that “mammy’s biological motherhood is repeatedly denied,leaving her powerless to protect her child” (112). Similarly, criticism ofBeloved has cited Sethe’s maternal powerlessness and her infanticide as an
attempt to enact maternal potency. Marianne Hirsh suggests that “whenSethe tries to explain to Beloved why she cut her throat, she is explaining ananger handed down through generations of mothers who could have nocontrol over their children’s lives, no voice in their upbringing” (196). It istherefore the notion of powerlessness or impotence regarding theirmaternity that is central to considerations of black maternal infanticide. As
such, the “silent act of infanticide serves as a vehicle through which themarginal mother can speak” (Harvey 12). Fowler analogises Nancy’s act toSethe’s and argues that “in Requiem as in Beloved the mother-child bond isunder attack” (142). But this reading fails to take into account the troubling
fact that the ‘mother-child bond’ is determined to be ‘under attack’ inRequiem because of the white mother’s sexual transgressions. While inBeloved Sethe is trying to save her daughter from the horrors of slavery
which she has herself experienced first-hand, Nancy’s murder is ultimately
about reinstating the fallen white woman back onto her pedestal.
So is it possible to consider Nancy’s murder of the white baby as connected to the loss of her own child, likely at the hands of a white man?
Requiem does not make clear that Nancy acts out of revenge – she does not,like Ries’s Mammy, actively murder because of her own lost child. But that
does not mean that the two dead babies in the novel (the unnamed whitechild and the miscarried child) are not in some way connected. Nancy
reveals the problem of maternity for the black woman in the South, particularly when the black woman is both mammy and mother. And while
Nancy’s position as mother is never fully realized (although, her history isso sketchy that other children are possible), there still exists in her character

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the tension of dispossessed black maternity, more fully realized in texts like
Morrison’s and Ries’s.
The picture of Nancy Mannigoe that emerges from her actions in
Requiem is a mammy who is deeply and troublingly transgressive. Nancy is,in the words of Temple Drake and other white characters in the novel, a“whore” mammy whose troubling maternal potential is fully realized when
she smothers a white infant in its crib. Nancy’s position as an ex-prostitute,ex-drug addict mammy who murders a child in her care, outwardly compromises her ability to become idealised under the same terms as otherfictional versions of mammy. However, by the end of Requiem the murdering Jezebel mammy has been recast by Gavin Stevens as a definitive
figure of transcendent black maternity. As Paradiso has argued, Nancy has
no “place” within the Southern society of Yoknapatwpha as a “reformed
prostitute who murders in the name of the lord.” But, Paradiso continues,“the people in the form of Gavin Stevens… find a way to make her fit: by
turning her into a saint” (29).
Gavin needs to rationalise Nancy’s actions in such a way that will notdestabilise the sanctity of the white family. Readers are not led to consider
Nancy’s murder as stemming from hate, anger, or madness; instead, by theend of the novel, her murder is coded in terms of black sacrifice. By the endof the novel Gavin has successfully returned Temple Drake, the fallen
Southern belle and mother of the murdered child, to her position as motherwithin the white family, and in doing so, has exalted Nancy to a position ofsaintly black sacrifice.
Nancy’s murder is cast as a deliberate double sacrifice of the white childand herself so that she may save the white woman and her family. Nancy
herself is resigned to her own death, speaking of it as “pay for the suffering”(Requiem 242). She “just believes” in God and his path and her death ispresented as simply part of the transaction required to purchase redemption
for herself and the white family she is ultimately shown to serve. Nancy’s
murder of the white child and her subsequent execution is recast by Gavin
Stevens as the ultimate sacrifice of the black mammy for the white family.
Stevens tells Temple Drake that Nancy “will die tomorrow to postulate thatlittle children, as long as they are little children, shall be intact, unanguished, untorn, unterrified” (Requiem 185). Gavin’s reading of the murderof Temple’s child iterates that for him, being the child of a sexually impure
mother is worse than death. Nancy has protected Temple’s remaining childfrom anguish and terror by murdering his infant sister, Stevens argues. This
makes no sense, but in Faulkner’s South such an argument holds. Stevens
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does not consider for even a moment that the death of his sister would
cause anguish or terror for the remaining child. Instead, having his motherreturned to her pedestal as Southern lady and mother is more important
than the life of the murdered infant, or indeed, the life of the mammy.
The black mammy is sanctified in Requiem because of her sacrifice to thewhite family. The double sacrifice of white baby and black mammy iscommitted, Gavin Stevens insists, because holding together a white family is
the essential goal for the black mammy. In Requiem, a black woman, amammy, gives everything of herself so that whiteness is preserved. How
might we come to terms with this distinctly problematic exchange? I wantto consider the characterisation of Nancy in conversation with anotherexchange, one that occurred in 1956 between William Faulkner and James
Baldwin. In February of 1956 Faulkner gave an interview to William Howein which he espoused a variety of controversial views regarding segregation.
In response to this interview James Baldwin wrote an article titled “Faulkner
and Desegregation” in which he roundly criticised Faulkner’s position
regarding race relations. While “Faulkner and Desegregation” does notconsider Requiem, Baldwin does consider Requiem elsewhere. In No Namein the Street Baldwin speaks of Requiem’s conclusion and asks “whyFaulkner may have needed to believe in a black forgiveness?” (380). This
question is central to Baldwin’s concerns about Requiem but also to themore general concerns he highlights in “Faulkner and Desegregation”. In
his infamous interview Faulkner encouraged civil right activists to “go slow”(Lion 258) in taking steps toward racial equality. Baldwin, in his critique of
Faulkner’s criticizes Faulkner’s suggestion that “white Southerners, left totheir own devices, will realize that their own social structure looks silly tothe rest of the world and correct it of their own accord” (Faulkner 148), but,
Baldwin argues, they have instead “clung to it, at incalculable cost tothemselves, as the only conceivable and as an absolutely sacrosanct way oflife” (148).
Faulkner insists that Southerners simply require more time, that civilrights activists and Northerners need to “take the pressure off” the whiteSouth and let them come around to equality in their own time and on theirown terms (Lion 249). This “wait and see” attitude, the call to “go slow” is notenough for Baldwin, who asks “just what Negroes are supposed to do while
the South works out what, in Faulkner’s rhetoric, becomes something very
closely resembling a high and noble tragedy” (Faulkner 148). Baldwin argues
that the essential feature of Faulkner’s rhetoric regarding race is that his
concerns are about white people, rather than black. Specifically, Baldwin
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suggests that the defeat of the South by the North left the South with only one
means “of asserting its identity and that means was the negro” (Faulkner 151).
As such, white Southerners are reliant on African Americans to define
themselves. Ann Anlin Cheng in The Melancholy of Race suggests that“segregation and colonialism are internally fraught institutions not because
they have eliminated the Other but because they need the very thing they hateor fear” (12). The white South does not wish to eliminate blacks, for without
them how would they know themselves? Instead, they must recast the racialsituation. For Faulkner, his view that the white South is in some way inevitably damned and blacks already saved, leads him to idealise blackness to thepoint of unreality, sanctifying black suffering through characterisations suchas Nancy’s murdering mammy. This racial set up, whites as doomed andblacks as saved, is deeply problematic because it fails to allow for a scenario in
which blacks can be anything other than martyrs.
Faulkner places himself on the side of equality but advocates a moderate
plan forward. However, Faulkner is thinking of whites rather than blacks
when he advocates for a slow and gradual process of desegregation.
Faulkner tells Howe,
we know that racial discrimination is morally bad, that it stinks, that itshouldn’t exist, but it does. Should we obliterate the persecutor by acting
in a way that we know will send him to his guns, or should wecompromise and let it work out in time and save whatever good remains
in those white people? (Lion 261)

A program of compromise and gradual gains whose end result would be tosave whatever good remains in whites is understandably inadequate to commentators like Baldwin who have suffered the continuing ravages of racialinequality. It is hard to imagine how going slow might comfort blacks forwhom Southern history has been, in Baldwin’s words, “an intolerable yoke,a stinking prison, a shrieking grave” (No Name 380). Baldwin interprets
Faulkner’s desire to save “whatever good remains in these white people” asan indication that he believes that Negroes are therefore “already saved”(Faulkner 152). The Negroes, Baldwin continues “who, having refused to be
destroyed by terror, are far stronger than the terrified white populace”(Faulkner 152). Faulkner seems to think that because of their suffering,
blacks are able to claim the high moral ground and he seems to be suggesting that such a position is an adequate substitute for a life lived without
fear and prejudice. It is white moral identity that is at risk in Faulkner’s

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reading of the South. Baldwin’s reading of Faulkner here can be applied tohis representation of Nancy who, despite her horrific, violent actions is‘already saved’ at the conclusion of the novel. Nancy does not need to be
saved, but she will sacrifice everything of herself in order to save ‘whatevergood remains’ in the white people around her—particularly her white
mistress Temple Drake.
Ultimately, both Sethe and Nancy’s acts of infanticide speak to thedisempowerment of black women in the South both during and afterslavery. However, while Sethe’s murder can be coded as an attempt to gain
some form of maternal potency by a woman rendered impotent by hersocial, racial, and gendered place, the idealisation of Nancy’s murder in
Requiem becomes problematic because it apotheosises a black woman for
her imagined sacrifice to whites. So while the murder of an infant isundoubtedly horrific in any case, Sethe’s action is part of a wider system ofviolence and oppression which aims to destroy black families and while thisdoes not excuse her actions, it does go some way toward explaining them.
And while Nancy is similarly dispossessed due to her race, gender, andsocial and sexual status, the motives behind her murder are less clear andthe novel’s explanation of Nancy becomes mythologising and her murder
becomes yet another instance of the mammy sacrificing her own body insupport of the white family.

Works Cited
Baldwin, James. “Faulkner and Desegregation”. The Price of the Ticket: Collected
Non-Fiction 1948–1985. London: Michael Joseph, 1985. 147–152.
—. ‘No Name in the Street”. James Baldwin: Collected Essays. New York: Library of America, 1998. 350–475.
Cheng, Ann Anlin. The Melancholy of Race: Psychoanalysis, Assimilation, andHidden Grief. New York: Oxford, 2001.
Faulkner, William. Requiem for a Nun. 1950. New York: Vintage, 1996.
—. “Interview with Russell Howe”. 1956. Lion in the Garden: Interviews with
William Faulkner. Ed. James B. Meriwether and Michael Millgate. London:
U of Nebraska P, 1980. 257–264.
Fowler, Doreen. “Reading for the “Other Side”: Beloved and Requiem for aNun.” Unflinching Gaze: Morrison and Faulkner Re-Envisioned. Eds. Carol

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A. Kolmerten, Judith Bryant Wittenberg. Jackson: UP of Mississippi, 1997.
139–151.
Harvey, Brandy Andrews. After the Silence: Narrating Infanticide as theAgent/Mother. Dissertation. Lafayette: University of Louisana, 2007.
Hirsch, Marianne. The Mother/Daughter Plot: Narrative, Psychoanalysis, Feminism. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1989.
Morrison, Toni. Beloved. 1986. London: Vintage, 2007.
Paradiso, Sharon Desmond. “Terrorizing Whiteness in Yoknapatawpha Country” Faulkner Journal. 3.2. 2008. 23–44.
Ries, Adeline F. “Mammy, A Story.” Short Fiction by Black Women, 1900–1920.
Ed. E. Ammons. New York: Oxford UP, 1991. 520–523.
Wallace-Sanders, Kimberly. Mammy: A Century of Race, Gender, and Southern
Memory. Ann Arbor: Michigan UP, 2008.

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A Valediction Forbidding Mo’nin?:
Beloved Revisited

Hilary Emmett
In subtitling this essay “Beloved Revisited” I seek to gesture to Toni
Morrison’s novel as a site, like Sweet Home, from which it is difficult tomove on. My title also implies that, like traumatic memory, much of what issaid about it may be in danger of being repetitive, evidence of a kind ofstasis and failure to work through and move on. Indeed, it signals a lot of
my own anxieties about whether there is anything new to say about Beloved.
A perusal of the MLA listings shows that while the novel is not on par with
Hamlet, or Paradise Lost as the most analysed text in the English language,
or even Ulysses in relation to texts of the twentieth century, in relation toother modern American texts it stands in a class almost of its own, trumping major works by Faulkner, Ellison, Fitzgerald, Hemingway in terms of
critical attention. The question to be asked, therefore, is: can we even talkabout revisiting, if in fact we have never left?
What makes the account of Beloved that follows a “re-visitation” is that I
want to use it to open up a pathway to return to a term that had enjoyedcelebration, been subject to trenchant critique, and then suffered disposal
around the same time that Beloved was coming into being and enjoying its
first extraordinary outpourings of critical response in the early 1990s. This
term is sisterhood—a designation that was embraced in the 1970s, put underthe microscope in the 1980s, and then laid to rest in a series of post-mortems
about its failures in the early 1990s, as evidenced by a proliferation of
publications with titles such as Segregated Sisterhood: Racism and the Politics
of American Feminism (1991), and even Feminist Nightmares: Women at
Odds—Feminism and The Problem of Sisterhood (1994). I am interested insisterhood as a category that has been relatively neglected in literary studies ofthe past twenty years, too easily subsumed into discussions of gender in95

LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

general, and too readily dismissed as a naïve political affiliation. Indeed, whatmany theorists of the genesis of the liberal-democratic nation state describe as
the exclusion of women in general from the public body politic, is in fact a
failure to account for the place of the sister in the “imagined fraternity” ofAmerican citizenship.1 Even analyses that critique the discourse of biologicaldeterminism which excludes women from the citizenry,2 or trouble the rigidly
gendered and aligned binaries of private/public, feminine/masculine,3 often
reproduce the logic of biological determinism by occluding the ways in which
women themselves occupy a number of different positions within the generalized category of “womanhood.” The very appropriation of the term
“sisterhood” by feminism as a crucial component of its politics and vocabulary performs an identical move of converting the particularity of sisters intoa universalized class of “women.”
So what does the problem of sisterhood have to do with Beloved, a novel
almost over-determined by its exploration of motherhood at its limit? There
are two ways in which I think Beloved is a necessary text for re-thinking
sisterhood. First, I think it is necessary to consider Beloved as a novel oftraumatic sisterhood as well as a novel about traumatized maternity. And
while I cannot claim to have read the nearly 700 entries on the MLA database, I have not yet come across an adequate account of the relationshipbetween Beloved and Denver that is not triangulated via Sethe and does notconsider them as the two daughters of one woman.4 I realize that that could
be understood as the very definition of sisterhood—the two daughters of ashared parent—but it also downplays the relationality of siblings to eachother outside of their relationship to their parents. The second reason is the
response my interest in sisterhood in American fiction often generates inacademic circles; I regularly receive variations on the dismissal “It justsounds like bad 80s feminism!” when the word sisterhood is mentioned. For
some time I adapted my terminology so that sisterhood became kinship à laJudith Butler, but the question that still plagues me: what is so bad about
1

The phrase is Dana Nelson’s from National Manhood: Capitalist Citizenship and the
Imagined Fraternity of White Men (Durham: Duke University Press, 1998).
2
See, for example, Lauren Berlant, “The Subject of True Feeling: Pain, Privacy and
Politics” in Cultural Studies and Political Theory, Jodi Dean (ed.) (Ithaca: Cornell
University Press, 2000), 42-62.
3
Such as Elizabeth Maddock Dillon’s The Gender of Freedom: Fictions of Liberalism andthe Literary Public Sphere (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2004).
4
See, for example Connie R. Schomburg, “To Survive Whole, To Save the Self” in
JoAnna Stephens Mink and Janet Doubler Ward, The Significance of Sibling
Relationships in Literature (Bowling Green: Bowling Green State University Popular
Press, 1992): 149-57.

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80s feminism? Was it bad because it elided difference, and was therefore
rightly taken to task by feminists such as bell hooks and others?5 Or is it badbecause it implies an excess of affect both mealy-mouthedly positive or
corrosively, competitively negative? If this is the case, then, why is the term
sisterhood still so avoided such that even Lauren Berlant in her examinationof the affective origins and investments of women’s culture does not
acknowledge it as a significant rhetorical object of study?6
What I aim to show with the following reading that privileges the role ofDenver as sister, is that Beloved is a novel that dramatizes the vexed operations of sisterhood in antebellum America. What I want to suggest ultimately, though this is beyond the scope of this essay, is that if we adhere toWalter Benjamin’s insistence that “every image of the past must berecognized by the present as one of its own concerns” (247) or more
specifically, if we accept Asharaf Rushdy’s compelling arguments about thecontemporary politics of neo-slave narrative (3–53), Beloved equally stages
an intervention into the politics of cross-racial communitas in the 1980s.
I begin my account of the novel from the point at which Sethe, Beloved,and Denver have become locked in a melancholic stasis confined to 124.
The three women engage in a fractured and fissured dialogue and as theconversation unfolds, their three voices become barely distinguishable fromone another. Rising to a crescendo, it culminates in the repetition of thephrase “you are mine” (217). Mine. The word becomes the only one recognizable as the voices of the women merge with the indecipherable voices of“the black and angry dead” (199) that surround the house.
The women are thus cloaked by a wall of sound more impenetrable than
any bolted door; as Denver describes it, “locked in a love that wore everybody out” (243). In recognizing this, Denver also recognizes that it is up to
her to enact her own and her mother’s transition from the twilight world ofBeloved back into the land of the living. Snatched from “the arch of [her]mother’s swing” by Stamp Paid (149), Denver’s very existence is predicatedon the community’s denial of Sethe’s right to control the fate of herchildren. It falls to her, therefore, to mediate between her mother and the5See, for example, bell hooks’ Ain’t I a Woman: Black Women and Feminism (London:
Pluto Press, 1982) and “Sisterhood: Political Solidarity Between Women” in Anne
McClintock et al., Dangerous Liaisons: Gender, Nation, and Postcolonial Perspectives(Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1997): 396-411. See also Sandra Kumamoto Stanley(ed.), Other Sisterhoods: Literary Theory and U.S. Women of Color (Urbana and Chicago:
University of Illinois, 1998).
6
I am thinking here of The Female Complaint: The Unfinished Business of Sentimentality in American Culture (Durham: Duke University Press, 2008).

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LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY“colored people” of Cincinnati. Yet she remains paralyzed by fear of a pastthat inheres in the present. Having made her decision to seek help from thecommunity, she stands on the porch unable to move for dread of “theplaces where time didn’t pass, where…the bad was waiting for her as well”(244). In her moment of hesitation, Baby Suggs’ voice comes to her out of
this past, reminding her of her family’s immense capacity for survival. She
encourages Denver to remember her mother’s endurance, when, pregnant
with Denver and running from schoolteacher, she kept herself alive for her
children’s sake. She acknowledges that Sethe’s action was indefensible, but
Denver is to accept the event as another devastating effect of slavery—aspart of a catalogue of brutality that includes Baby Suggs’ lameness, herfather’s disappearance and her mother’s mutilated back. Recognizing this,Denver steps out of the yard and into the community.
Her mother’s daughter still in that “asking for help from strangers wasworse than hunger” (248), Denver nevertheless learns to accept the gifts offood and companionship offered by the women of the town. In doing so,
she offsets her mother’s pride and sets in motion both the bridging process
between Sethe and the community, and her own development into asovereign subject, an “owned self.” Following a paper trail of “scraps
containing […] handwritten names” (248) Denver painstakingly retraces
the steps taken into her own yard by others, returning their plates and bowls
and dishtowels and receiving in turn conversation. Her “soft thank-yous”
prompt reminiscences of Baby Suggs, her preaching in the Clearing, her
tonics for sick relatives, her soup, her largesse. And in remembering again“the party with twelve turkeys and tubs of strawberry smash,” the womenagree that “the personal pride, the arrogant claim staked at 124 seemed tothem to have run its course” (249).
As the situation worsens, Denver resolves to appeal to the Bodwins forhelp. They had helped her family twice, she rationalizes, “once for Baby
Suggs and once for her mother. Why not the third generation as well?”(252). The abolitionist Bodwins are the owners of the house on Bluestone
Rd given over to Baby Suggs and her family following the purchase of her
freedom. They were also instrumental in securing Sethe’s release fromprison and her subsequent employment at Sawyer’s restaurant. But inappealing to the Bodwins she must ignore other words of Baby Suggs’; shemust selectively remember:“They got me out of jail,” Sethe once told Baby Suggs.
“They also put you in it,” she answered.
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A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MO’NIN? - EMMETT“They drove you ’cross the river.”“On my son’s back.”“They gave you this house.”“Nobody gave me nothing.”“I got a job from them.”“He got a cook from them, girl” (244).

The Bodwins are in many ways profoundly ambivalent figures; they
supplied clothing and housing for runaways, but only because “they hated
slavery more than they hated the slaves” (137). Their black housekeeper,
Janey, agrees that they are “good whitefolks” but even in her eyes this is adamning with faint praise. Denver accepts the offer of employment the
Bodwins offer her, but not without knowledge of the racial superiority theyfeel. Like a kind of household god guarding the back door of the Bodwins’house sits
a black boy’s mouth, full of money. His head was thrown back, farther
than a head could go, his hands were shoved in his pockets. Bulging likemoons, two eyes were all the face he had above the gaping red mouth.
His hair was a cluster of raised, widely spaced dots made of nail heads.
And he was on his knees. His mouth, wide as a cup, held the coinsneeded to pay for a delivery or some other small service, but could justas well have held buttons or pins or crabapple jelly. Painted across thepedestal he knelt on were the words “At Yo Service.” (255)This figure obviously suggests the Bodwins’ implication in a system ofmonetary exchange across black bodies, and also foregrounds an interestingly repeated image of the abuse of black male bodies. The kneelingblack man has been encountered already in this novel. Paul D and his fellow
members of the chain gang are forced to kneel before the white guards andoffered the choice of a nauseating “breakfast” or a gunshot to the head: “theprice of taking a bit of foreskin […] to Jesus” (108). The violence of this
exploitation is clear in both cases. In the one, the threat of the gunshot isenough to keep men on their knees. In the other forced submission is
implied in the hands “shoved” into binding pockets, the head wrenchedback unnaturally, “farther than a head could go,” the eyes bulging likemoons due to the choking bulk of the metal weighing in the mouth. The
money’s weight also recalls the bit placed in Paul D’s mouth, his “offended”
tongue and “how the need to spit is so deep you cry for it”; the bulging eyes

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and gaping mouth recall “the wildness that shot up into the eye the moment
the lips were yanked back” (71).
Violence, exploitation and degradation thus reside alongside whitenessin the Bodwin household. The Bodwins will employ Denver but she will pay
them in return by having to share her story—“a little thing to pay, but it
seemed big to Denver. Nobody was going to help her unless she told it, told
all of it” (253). The price of her initiation into the black community and thewhite economy is the story of Beloved: what she is and how she came to be.
That it is Janie to whom she must tell the story to brings these two things
into undeniable relation with one another. Denver is right to see this priceas significant in that telling Beloved’s story paves the way for her sister’sultimate disappearance from the community. As the collapsing of title andcharacter in this novel suggests, Beloved is her story. Denver pays this priceprecisely because she recognizes that Beloved cannot continue to exact anaccount from their mother. In giving away the family secret, Denver does,in a way, sell Beloved out. But her action is neither entirely one nor theother. Rather, she returns to the economy of sacrifice that Sethe failed fully
to perform at the moment of her original infanticide.7 A sacrifice is a gift ofgreat price that elicits something in return; Denver sacrifices Beloved inreturn for the possibility of community, and a place within it.
In agreeing to work for the Bodwins, Denver sets the scene for a final reconfigured re-enactment of the original infanticide. Despite her documented terror that “the thing that makes it all right to kill […] children”
might “come back into the yard” (206), she arranges for Edward Bodwin tocollect her from the porch steps and take her to begin her employment in
his house. Denver knows and fears her mother’s capabilities but nevertheless arranges for a white man to encroach upon their yard. She knowsthat Sethe has been willing to kill once before to protect her child; does she
hope that she will do so again? Sure enough, when Sethe sees EdwardBodwin approaching her house to collect Denver for work, she once againreaches for a weapon. But this time the ice-pick is not raised against her
child, but against the white man whom she perceives to be the representative of those who caused her original suffering. As Sethe lunges towards
Bodwin, Ella and Denver wrest the weapon from her grip before she can dohim any harm. Simultaneously, the rest of the women of the town gather
7
On Sethe’s infanticide as a vexed act of sacrifice see Hilary Emmett, “The Maternal
Contract in Beloved and Medea,” in Anne Simon & Heike Bartel (eds), Unbinding
Medea: Interdisciplinary Approaches to a Classical Myth from Antiquity to the 21stCentury, (Oxford: Legenda Press, 2010): 248-260.

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around the house and begin their exorcism of Beloved. As they assemble, awave of sound surrounds the house. It is non-speech, yet it is not barbaric
non-sense. Rather, it is understood by all who hear it to be a wordlessthrenody by which the death of Beloved, and her mother’s part in it, areacknowledged, forgiven and mourned by the collective at last. This sound isalso a literary rendering of Fred Moten’s theorization of sound andmourning in which he posits the “wordless moan” as a means of vocalizing
the ineffable. For Moten, the “mo’n” (the moan which mourns) “renders
mourning wordless,” but in doing so, “augments” it by “releasing more thanwhat is bound up in the presence of the word” (73). “Words can’t begin totell you, but maybe moaning will” (Moten, 60). We might also hear in themoan a new note that converts the discordant cry of mine into a harmony ofpossession claimed and recognized, but in being so, must now be let go.
And so Beloved disappears. Memorably, “disremembered and unaccounted for” until she is “just weather. Certainly no clamour for a kiss.”“You think she sure ’nough your sister?” Paul D asks Denver. “At times. At
times I think she was—more,” Denver replies (266). Denver’s understanding of Beloved as her sister, and as signifying something “more” isrevealing in that it both raises the question of what sisterhood might havemeant in the immediate aftermath of slavery’s abolition and gestures tosisterhood’s excess, its unconfineable significance in United States’ history.
As many have argued, the something “more” that Beloved embodies is theuncontainability of the traumatic memory of slavery, the eternally recurring“rememory” which cannot be kept at bay, and as such, inhibits the free andforward movement of the community of former slaves. Such rememory
repeats itself precisely because it cannot be narrativized. Yet while
Morrison’s novel lends itself well to readings that posit the direct causal
relationship between trauma and the impossibility of narrative, there isanother, more historically specific reason for the need to keep Beloved outof the community’s shared story.
As Morrison herself has emphasized, Beloved was written with theintention of revealing what lay behind what Lydia Maria Child termed the“veil” drawn over the most “monstrous features” of slavery (7–8). DespiteChild’s rhetoric, the alliance forged between “conscientious and reflecting[white] women at the North” and their “sisters in bondage” was predicatedon the slave narrator’s elision of details that might prove too indelicate forwhite women’s ears. As Jacqueline Goldsby and others have so ably shown,concealment, falsehood and subterfuge were not only the political strategies
by which “Linda Brent” effects her liberation from bondage, but are also the101

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discursive modes through which Harriet Jacobs transcribes her experience(11–12), leading to, in Saidiyah Hartman’s words, the “seduction” of white,
Northern women readers into identification with the slave woman (106–7).
The rhetoric of sisterhood was deployed by abolitionist movements in both
Britain and America, both to insist upon the common humanity of slaves,and to harness the momentum of the abolitionist cause to movements
calling for women’s rights—an alliance that would cause consternation
among advocates of the cause of women’s suffrage.8 Sojouner Truth’s
alleged clarion call for the recognition of her womanhood, “Ain’t I a
Woman?” tapped into such rhetoric in its echo of the motto attached to
Josiah Wedgwood’s widely disseminated anti-slavery medallion. One of themost compelling images of the transatlantic abolitionist movement, thecameo commissioned by Wedgwood in 1788 depicted a kneeling slave inchains and carried the caption, “Am I not a Man and a Brother?” The 1828
version, portraying a suppliant female slave was accompanied by a scroll
proclaiming, “Am I not a Woman and a Sister?”
Truth’s testimony, which comes to us via the words of Frances Gage,
written 30 years after the event, was apparently delivered to initiallyambivalent effect at the 1851 Women’s Rights Convention in Akron, Ohio(not far from Lorain, where Morrison herself was born and raised). Gage
described the palpable (and vocal) unease which met Truth’s now famous
demand for equality with men, and more significantly, with white womenon the levels of sentiment, labor, and maternity. In Gage’s account, Truth’s
preparation to take the stage was met with entreaties from the more“timorous and trembling” proponents of suffrage not to align their cause“with abolition and niggers,” and a “hissing sound of disapprobation”
spread throughout the hall as she rose to give her testimony (cited in
Stanton et al., 116). While Gage’s version of the event concludes with her
insistence that Truth’s words turned the tide of public opinion in favor ofabolition and women’s rights, we also take away from this account the readydisavowal of the common sisterhood of black and white women by those forwhom such a position is inherently distasteful.

8

Also worth noting here is bell hooks’ requisitioning of this phrase as the title of her
1981 exposition of the weak links in the alliance between civil rights activists and whitefeminists. The resurfacing of Truth’s words at this particular political moment
underscores my contention that Beloved is as much a novel about the ongoing trauma ofsisterhood as it is about black maternity: both antebellum and post-Moynihan. bell
hooks, Ain’t I a Woman?: Black Women and Feminism (Boston: South End Press, 1981),
141.

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A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MO’NIN? - EMMETTMy own emphasis on the position of Beloved as sister indexes a similar
necessity among black “sisters.” The moan that both mourns Beloved’s
death and acknowledges the community’s implication in it simultaneously
effects her erasure. As the embodiment of all the “unspeakable thoughts,
unspoken” (199) of all the “black and angry dead” Beloved has no ongoingplace in the community. Beloved is forgotten as a result of the ritual thatcalled the women together for the first time since Baby Suggs’ party:
those that saw her that day on the porch quickly and deliberately forgot
her. It took longer for those who had spoken to her, lived with her, fallen
in love with her, to forget, until they realized they couldn’t remember or
repeat a single thing she had said. […] So in the end, they forgot her too.
Remembering seemed unwise. (274)Each person, some with more alacrity than others, thus eventually commits
to amnesia for the good of the community.
In her essay “Of Amnesty and its Opposite” Nicole Loraux references theAthenian “decree of amnesty” of 403 BCE. This declaration of an end to
civil war required that citizens swear the oath: “I shall not recall the misfortunes.” Loraux’s essay investigates the etymological link between
amnesty and amnesia implied by such an oath (84, 87). She argues that civic
community can only be reconstituted through an individual commitment
to deliberate forgetting. Such a collective conformity an institutionalized
forgetting seems to explain why Beloved’s story is “not a story to pass on.”However, this phrase, repeated three times at the novel’s close, as though it
is an incantation, jars with the fact that Beloved’s story has been recorded as
text. The story that was not to be passed on has been concretized forposterity in a lasting cultural artifact. There are numerous critical accountsof this phrase that seek to reconcile the presence of this text with its
injunction against repetition, most concluding that the ambiguity of theclosing lines of the text reflects the psychic processes of mourning.
Mae Henderson argues that “pass on” may be read as a pun on the word
pass: “this is not a story to be PASSED ON,” in the sense that it is not to be
repressed, forgotten or ignored (83). This reading is sustained by Sethe’s
conversation with Denver towards the beginning of the novel in which shecomments, “I was talking about time. It’s so hard for me to believe in it.
Some things go. Pass on. Others just stay” (36). Here, “pass” quite clearlyrefers to a passage into oblivion, “passing away” as a euphemism for death.

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Yet to resolve the ambiguity of this phrase too neatly is to totalize anarrative that has resisted closure in so many structural ways. Indeed, theambiguity of the closing lines of the text is performative of psychic
processes of mourning. As Loraux writes, “it is up to us, listening to Freud,to understand in all these utterances the same denial, and the confession,
made without the speaker’s knowledge (106). “The subject matter of arepressed image or thought can make its way into consciousness on
condition that it is denied” (Freud, 213–214). Like Christ, Beloved is denied
three times—“it was not a story to pass on”—but in the very denial there isan injunction to remember, to pass the story of Beloved on to succeeding
generations. Beloved, the girl, can and must, pass away in order to ease theburden of the past borne by the community, but the emptiness left by her“passing on” is a constant reminder of her absence. Unlike the death ofChrist, the passing of Beloved is not redemptive.9 Her sacrifice does allow
for the formation of community between women, both black and white, butsuch community, predicated on the sister’s disappearance, is undeniably
melancholic. The sacrifice of Beloved and the trauma that she stands foremblematizes the price of sisterhood in Reconstruction America.

Works Cited
Benjamin, Walter, “Theses on the Philosophy of History” in Illuminations:
Essays and Reflections (Pimlico, 1999): 245–255.
Berlant, Lauren. “The Subject of True Feeling: Pain, Privacy and Politics” inCultural Studies and Political Theory, Jodi Dean (ed.) (Ithaca: Cornell UP,
2000), 42–62.
—. The Female Complaint: The Unfinished Business of Sentimentality in American Culture. Durham: Duke UP, 2008. Print.

9

On redemption and sisterhood at the conclusion of Beloved see Connie R. Schomburg’s
reading of Denver as fortuitously learning self-sufficiency from Beloved’s overwhelming
and vengeful love. For Schomberg, had Beloved not returned to elicit compensationfrom her mother and sister, Denver would never have approached, or learned to rely on
the women of the community. Yet in insisting unequivocally upon the wholeness of thecommunity following the exorcism of Beloved, and celebrating the “unhampered-bythe-grave bond” shared by Denver and her sister, Schomberg fails adequately to accountfor the ongoing guilt, pain and loss which infuse the ending of the novel. “To Survive
Whole, To Save the Self,” 156.

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A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MO’NIN? - EMMETTChild, Lydia Maria, “Introduction by the Editor” to Harriet Jacobs, Incidents in
the Life of a Slave Girl. New York: Barnes and Noble, 2005). Print.
Dillon, Elizabeth Maddock. The Gender of Freedom: Fictions of Liberalism andthe Literary Public Sphere. Stanford: Stanford UP, 2004. Print.
Emmett, Hilary, “The Maternal Contract in Beloved and Medea,” in Anne Simon & Heike Bartel (eds), Unbinding Medea: Interdisciplinary Approaches
to a Classical Myth from Antiquity to the 21st Century, (Oxford: Legenda
Press, 2010): 248–260.
Freud, Sigmund. General Psychological Theory. Philip Rieff (ed.). New York:
Macmillan, 1963. Print.
Goldsby, Jacqueline. “‘I disguised my hand’: Writing Versions of the Truth inHarriet Jacobs’s Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, and John Jacobs’s, ‘A
True Tale of Slavery’” in Deborah M. Garfield and Rafia Zafar (eds), Harriet Jacobs and Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl: New Critical Essays(Cambridge and New York: Cambridge UP, 1996): 11–43.
Hartman, Saidiyah. Scenes of Subjection: Terror, Slavery, and Self-Making in Nineteenth-Century America. Oxford and New York: Oxford UP, 1997. Print.
Henderson, Mae G. “Toni Morrison’s Beloved: Re-Membering the Body as
Historical Text” in Hortense J. Spillers, ed., Comparative American Identities: Race, Sex and Nationality in the Modern Text (New York and London:
Routledge, 1991): 62–86.
hooks, bell. Ain’t I a Woman: Black Women and Feminism. London: Pluto,
1982. Print.
—.“Sisterhood: Political Solidarity Between Women” in Anne McClintock et al.,Dangerous Liaisons: Gender, Nation, and Postcolonial Perspectives (Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1997): 396–411.
Loraux, Nicole, Mothers in Mourning: With the Essay “Of Amnesty and its Opposite.” Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1999. Print.
Morrison, Toni. Beloved. New York: Knopf, 1987. Print.
—. “The Site of Memory” in William Zinsser (ed.) Inventing the Truth: The Art
and Craft of Memoir 2nd edn (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1995): 83–102
Moten, Fred. “Black Mo’nin,” in David L. Eng and David Kazanjian (eds), Loss:
The Politics of Mourning (Berkeley: University of California Press): 59–76.
Nelson, Dana. National Manhood: Capitalist Citizenship and the Imagined
Fraternity of White Men. Durham: Duke UP, 1998. Print.
Rushdy, Ashraf H. A. Neo-Slave Narratives: Studies in the Social Logic of a Cultural Form. New York: Oxford UP, 1999. Print.
Schomburg, Connie R, “To Survive Whole, To Save the Self” in JoAnna Stephens Mink and Janet Doubler Ward, The Significance of Sibling Relation105

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ships in Literature, (Bowling Green: Bowling Green State University Popular Press, 1992): 149–57.
Stanley, Sandra Kumamoto, ed. Other Sisterhoods: Literary Theory and U.S.
Women of Color Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois, 1998. Print.
Stanton, Elizabeth Cady, Susan B. Anthony, and Matilda Jocelyn George, eds.
History of Woman Suffrage. New York: Fowler and Wells, 1889. Print.

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After Eden: Constructs of Home, House, and Racial
Difference in Toni Morrison’s A Mercy

Tuire Valkeakari
I prefer to think of a-world-in-which-race-does-not-matter as somethingother than a theme park, or a failed and always-failing dream, or as thefather’s house of many rooms. I am thinking of it as home. “Home”
seems a suitable term because, first, it lets me make a radical distinction
between the metaphor of house and the metaphor of home and helps me
clarify my thoughts on racial construction. Second, the term domesticates the racial project, moves the job of unmattering race away frompathetic yearning and futile desire; away from an impossible future or an
irretrievable and probably nonexistent Eden to a manageable, doable,
modern human activity. (Morrison, “Home” 3–4)

Rosemary Marangoly George opens her 1996 monograph, The Politics of
Home: Postcolonial Relocations and Twentieth-Century Fiction, by observing
that “over the course of the last hundred or so years, the concept of home(and of home-country) has been re-rooted and re-routed in fiction written
in English by colonizers, the colonized, newly independent peoples andimmigrants” (1). George’s play with “roots” and “routes” echoes James
Clifford’s and Paul Gilroy’s theorizations of diaspora, including the latter’sreflections on the African diaspora in The Black Atlantic: Modernity andDouble Consciousness (1993). Indeed, in addition to the populations
mentioned by George, descendants of African slaves in North America
form yet another group that has produced a significant number of anglophone novelists who are preoccupied with notions of home—among them,of course, Toni Morrison.
The title of Morrison’s 2012 novel, Home, hardly came as a surprise to
the readers familiar with her oeuvre because she has written about “home”
throughout her career—that is, about domiciles and families, as well as

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about places of belonging in a more abstract and geopolitical sense. For
example, the opening of her debut novel, The Bluest Eye—resonating with
George’s thought-provoking argument that “All fiction is homesickness”(1)—poignantly alludes to an “ideal” white middle-class home featured in a
Dick and Jane primer, thereby setting the stage for young Pecola
Breedlove’s natural but profoundly frustrated desire to belong in her environment, domestic and beyond. In Song of Solomon, Milkman Dead broadens his northern, middle-class understanding of “home” (a concept that hehas previously identified with his father’s house, which is beautiful andimmaculately kept, but virtually void of life) as he explores his family’s
African-derived roots in the South and, in the process, develops a new,existentially meaningful relationship to his black heritage. In Jazz, twosouthern orphans who marry and establish a home in early-twentiethcentury Harlem gradually lose their shared domestic happiness, but eventually will it into being again, leaving the narrator envying the grounded
everyday love that the reconciled spouses live out in their modest urban
apartment. In Paradise, the two competing designs of “paradise” epitomized
by Ruby and the Convent ultimately represent rival notions of community,group identity, belonging, and home. Because the idea of “home” in one
way or another plays a pivotal part in all novels that Morrison has published
to date, more examples could easily be added to these few, rather randomly
selected vignettes.
Against this backdrop, it is not surprising that constructs of home,1 as
well as a profound desire to belong, figure prominently in A Mercy, too (asdoes journeying, as befits the importance, emphasized by George, of thedual theme of homesickness and movement/migration in much postnineteenth-century anglophone fiction).2 The present action of A Mercy, set
in 1690, takes place on the Anglo-Dutch settler Jacob Vaark’s small farm1
Although “constructs of home” is a relatively common phrase, I would like toacknowledge that my choice of it as a key concept in this article has been especiallyinspired by the title of Claudia Drieling’s Constructs of “Home” in Gloria Naylor’s
Quartet; see also George’s (11) use of the same term.
2
While my topic resonates with the title of Anissa Wardi’s “The Politics of ‘Home’ in A
Mercy,” Wardi is particularly interested in how the African diaspora is “represented
materially as land and water” (23) in this novel. In her reading, these two elements are“embodied in Florens and Sorrow” (23), who “together […] map a biophysicalenvironment inflected with African diasporic history” (23). I, in turn, structure myanalysis on concepts and tropes drawn from Morrison’s “Home,” as explained below.
Also, I focus less on Morrison’s representation of the African diaspora in A Mercy than
Wardi does, because she and others have already discussed this pivotal aspect of thenovel at length.

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AFTER EDEN - VALKEAKARI“far up north” (148) in the Province of New York—more specifically, inwhat is now upstate New York.3 His homestead, a microcosm of early
Atlantic America, functions as the site of the short-lived family/community
formation of a handful of newcomers from various ethnoracial backgrounds
to this northern region. Morrison uses her familiar cyclical style, whichallows the story of each character to unfold gradually, to depict the literaland figurative journeys of Jacob, an inexperienced farmer who eventuallytires of struggling with the unyielding land and responds to the siren call of
the Caribbean sugar and rum trade, thus becoming a beneficiary of theAtlantic slave trade; his English wife, Rebekka, a late-seventeenth-century“mail-order bride” (Jennings 646; Wardi 23); Lina, a displaced Native
American survivor, whose home village French soldiers burned down after
a European-originated infectious disease had killed most of the villagers;
Sorrow, a sexually and emotionally abused orphan girl of indefinite ethnoracial origin,4 who initially seems a lost cause but then proudly renames
herself Complete upon discovering her ability to be a mother; and Florens,
an Angolan slave woman’s teenaged New World daughter in search of bothromantic love and existential self-actualization. Morrison’s narrative also
includes characters who frequently work as visiting laborers on Jacob’s
property:5 a young, handsome blacksmith—a free black man from New
3

The farm’s New York location is implied by Jacob’s references (13) to “Fort Orange”(on the site of the present-day city of Albany, NY), “Wiltwyck” (now Kingston, NY), and“Nieuw Amsterdam” (now New York City, NY). Some scholars have placed Jacob’s farmin Virginia; Jennings, for example, refers to “Jacob’s burgeoning Virginia estate” (646),
and Peterson (10) uncritically quotes her. However, Morrison’s narrative depicts Willard
Bond reminiscing about the time that he spent in Virginia before leaving the colony forthe more northerly region where his new master and Jacob live (148). Justine Tally (65;79, n17) identifies A Mercy’s Milton with Milton, Massachusetts—a still-existing townthat was, historically, settled by Puritans in 1640. However, the Dutch history of Jacob’s
farm (he inherited the estate from an uncle on the paternal, Dutch side of his family; 11–12) points to a New Netherland rather than a Massachusetts settlement. Indeed, in a2008 interview Morrison specifically mentioned that the novel’s events are set in“upstate New York and down in Maryland and Virginia” (“Back Talk”).
4
For a longer discussion of Sorrow’s race, see Cantiello (165, 170, 173–75).
5
Jacob, like other Europeans, views not only his houses but also “his” land as a commodity
or property that he possesses. As Lina thinks to herself, “Cut loose from the earth’s soul,
they [the Europeans] insisted on purchase of its soil” (54). For a discussion of colonists’and Native Americans’ different understandings of property rights concerning land in earlyAmerica, see Cronon, chapter 4, “Bounding the Land.” As Cronon emphasizes, thecolonists, who saw the land as a commodity, understood their land “purchases” fromNative Americans to mean that “what was sold was [. . .] the land itself, an abstract area
whose bounds in theory remained fixed no matter what the use to which it was put” (68),
whereas the Native Americans thought of themselves as dealing with usufruct rights.
Cronon elaborates: “What the Indians owned—or more precisely, what their villages gave

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Amsterdam—who voluntarily cares for a little foundling boy at home; andWillard Bond and Scully, white indentured servants on a farm adjacent to
Jacob’s, who find solace in each other’s arms but lack the knowledge,
political power, and wherewithal to fight the terms of their unduly
prolonged bondage.6 Morrison’s project of reimagining early American
racial and social formations both encompasses all these characters’ journeys
and highlights the way in which each character envisions belonging,individual agency, family, and home.
In A Home Elsewhere: Reading African American Classics in the Age of
Obama (2010), Robert B. Stepto identifies the topics of “how protagonists
raise themselves, often without one or both parents; [. . .] how protagonists
seek and find a home elsewhere; and how protagonists create personalities
that can deal with the pain of abandonment” as “age-old themes in African
American literature” (5). These themes permeate—indeed, saturate—A
Mercy, starting with the importance of the trope of orphanhood (which
describes the childhood of the patriarch Jacob, too, not just the lives of his
underlings) in this novel.7 Yet, Morrison’s re-imaginings of “home” in her
oeuvre do not only concern the private and the personal, but also thesocietal and the political, regardless of whether she depicts an actual
domicile or envisions home as a place of belonging in a more figurative
sense. In her 1997 essay “Home” (based on her talk at the “Race Matters”
Conference at Princeton University in April 1994 and published in theanthology The House That Race Built), she examines the concepts of “race”
and “home” together. Morrison opens the essay by acknowledging thatneither she nor her readers have ever “lived […] in a world in which race
did not matter” (3). She refers to the notion of “a world […] free of racialhierarchy” as “dreamscape—Edenesque, utopian” (3) and adds that “thethem claim to—was not the land but the things that were on the land during the various
seasons of the year. It was a conception of property shared by many of the hunter-gatherer
and agricultural peoples of the world, but radically different from that of the invading
Europeans” (65). In addition to marginalizing the native peoples, the colonists also madetheir own interpretations of property rights the law of the land.
6
While discussing A Mercy with NPR’s Michel Martin, Morrison emphasized that mostof the characters featured in this novel are “in various stages of enslavement.” Indeed,
Nell Irvin Painter reminds us that “before an eighteenth-century boom in the Africanslave trade, between one-half and two-thirds of all early white immigrants to the Britishcolonies in the Western Hemisphere came as unfree laborers, some 300,000 to 400,000
people,” and that “the eighteenth century created the now familiar equation that converts
race to black and black to slave” (42; emphasis added). A Mercy, set in the lateseventeenth century, reflects these historical facts.
7
For a reading of A Mercy that focuses on the trope of orphanhood, see Vega-González.

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race-free world has been posited as ideal, millennial, a condition possible
only if accompanied by the Messiah or situated in a protected preserve—awilderness park” (3). However, having made these disclaimers, she then,after all, goes on to exercise her powers of utopian imagination (albeit in anemphatically domestic/ated and grounded manner) by connecting thepossibility of “unmattering race” (3) with the concept of “home” in thepassage quoted at the beginning of this article. While scholars have previously placed “Home” in dialogue with Paradise,8 this article argues that
Morrison’s reflections in “Home” are extremely relevant to A Mercy as well:
the trope of Eden, constructs of home, what Morrison in “Home” calls “aradical distinction between the metaphor of house and the metaphor ofhome” (3), and (early) American racial formations all play significant rolesin this novel.

Jacob as an American Adam
Morrison embeds the trope of Eden in A Mercy by casting Jacob as “a versionof the American Adam” (Conner 152)9—an Adam whom the reader firstencounters wandering in a lush Edenic paradise, a Virginian landscape(named by the English after their Virgin Queen) that he “penetrat[es]” (9)both through his mental determination and his physical force: “Penetrating it
was like struggling through a dream. [. . .] Other than his own breath andtread, the world was soundless” (9–10). Morrison’s language implies that
Jacob—whose “tread” (10) anticipates Native American Lina’s later remark
about “the deathfeet of the Europes” (54)—imposes his patriarchal will andwhite male desire on what may seem, at first sight, a virginal landscape, withits “forests untouched since Noah, shorelines beautiful enough to bring tears,
wild food for the taking” (12). However, as William Cronon points out inChanges in the Land, his pioneering 1983 study of early American environmental history, it may be “tempting to believe that when the Europeans
arrived in the New World they confronted Virgin Land, the Forest Primeval,a wilderness which had existed for eons uninfluenced by human hands,” but“nothing could be further from the truth” (12). Paraphrasing Francis
Jennings, Cronon adds that “the land was less virgin than it was widowed”
because Native Americans “had lived on the continent for thousands of years”(12). As fields of study, both Native American history and American environ-8
For discussions of “Home” and Paradise together, see e.g. Dobbs (109–110); Valkeakari(193–200).
9
See also Stave (140).

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mental history have taken giant leaps forward since 1983; however, it isappropriate to evoke Cronon’s trailblazing book here because, in a 2008
interview with Christine Smallwood, Morrison singled out Changes in theLand as a particularly helpful study that she had read “over and over” while
doing background research for A Mercy (“Back Talk”). Indeed, as A Mercy
depicts Native Americans’ and colonists’ markedly different attitudes to their
physical environment, Morrison’s prose echoes Cronon’s scholarship both in
the Virginian/Edenic scene and in later passages, particularly in ones in which
the narration is filtered through Native American Lina’s consciousness.
Because Morrison sets Jacob’s journey through Virginia to Maryland in
the year 1682, she does not literally cast him as either the first human or the
first white man wandering in Virginia’s wilderness. However, at the novel’s
symbolic level, this scene—with its linguistic linkage of the white American
Adam’s presence with what Cathy Covell Waegner aptly describes as“trampl[ing] on existing cultures, landscapes, and resources” (91)—anticipates Jacob’s future avarice, corruption, and fall. Sandra M. Gustafson and
Gordon Hutner (245) observe that the scene’s invocation not only ofEuropean colonialism but also of (pre)capitalist greed ironically resonateswith the final paragraphs of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby (1925):10
in Gatsby (189), Nick Carraway’s concluding reflections connect the “fresh,green breast of the new world,” which amazed early Dutch sailors when
they first saw what is now a New York shoreline, with the pursuit ofmaterial wealth. A Mercy’s equivalent of this “green breast,” and of the“green light” that “Gatsby believed in” (Gatsby 189), is the rising sun
shining through an early morning Virginia fog that Jacob perceives as“thick, hot gold” (A Mercy 8). Prompted by this sight of “gold,” Jacob, too—like Fitzgerald’s characters—mentally connects the New World’s natural
resources with opportunities to accumulate wealth (Gustafson and Hutner
245). The “blinding” (10) golden haze that is capable of completely obscuring the spectator’s vision here signifies a (partially deceptive) promise ofeasy riches to be made in the New World. Although Jacob is initiallyrelatively indifferent to the temptation of affluence, materialistic greed
increasingly dominates his decision-making as the story progresses(Gustafson and Hutner 245), eventually causing him to lose sight of allother considerations and objectives in life.
Indeed, when Geneva Cobb Moore calls A Mercy Morrison’s “demonic
parody of the colonial American experience for Native Americans, black
10

Conner (154–55), too, mentions this intertextual allusion.

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Africans, and black Americans” (3), she aptly elaborates that “Morrison’s
parodic hypertext is intended to illuminate the impoverished background of
the early Europeans, and, ironically, their developing avarice andethnocentrism” (4). As befits this aspect of Morrison’s narrative design, thechapter depicting Jacob’s journey highlights both his growing greed and his
emerging identification with white privilege by anticipating his fall (that is,
his succumbing to the temptation of becoming a beneficiary of the Atlantic
slave trade) in no uncertain terms: at the chapter’s end, Jacob’s “plan” (35)
to participate in the Caribbean rum trade—a scheme that seems to him “assweet as the sugar on which it was based”—is already “taking shape” (35).
However, at its early stages the same chapter points to Jacob’s prelapsarian(in this context, unselfish) characteristics as well: it discloses his “pity fororphans and strays” (33); his ethical treatment of wildlife (he briefly interrupts his journey to rescue a trapped raccoon; 11) and of domesticatedanimals (he abhors cruelty to horses; 28);11 his intense disapproval of whites’
treatment of Native Americans during Bacon’s rebellion (10), a sentimentstrongly suggestive of an egalitarian dimension in his politics; and his
equally stern dislike of the oppressive laws encouraging antiblack racismthat were enacted in the same conflict’s aftermath (10–11):
By eliminating manumission, gatherings, travel and bearing arms forblack people only; by granting license to any white to kill any black for
any reason; by compensating owners for a slave’s maiming or death, they[the “new laws authorizing chaos in defense of order”; 10] separated andprotected all whites from all others forever. [. . .] In Jacob Vaark’s view,
these were lawless laws encouraging cruelty in exchange for common
cause, if not common virtue. (10–11)

In other words, the chapter narrating the white American Adam’s journeycontains both pre- and postlapsarian indications—on the one hand,
intimations of what seems to be Jacob’s kindness and egalitarianism and, on
the other hand, evidence of his quickly deepening, profoundly self-serving
desire to become rich (a craving prompted by his visit to Jublio, the11However, the narrative’s early reference to Jacob’s abhorrence of the maltreatment ofdomestic animals takes on ambivalent, Douglassian overtones when considered together
with the later revelation that Jacob eventually decides to participate in the Caribbean
rum trade, a form of early Atlantic capitalism dependent on slave labor. In his 1845
Narrative (26), Douglass criticized his first master’s employer, Colonel Lloyd, forhypocrisy, because Lloyd demanded that his horses be provided with the best possiblecare, but at the same time kept extremely cruel overseers of slaves on his payroll. See alsoPeterson (14).

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plantation of the Portuguese slave owner/trader D’Ortega in Maryland),regardless of the cost of the enterprise to Africans and their descendants on
the Atlantic rim. At times, such pre- and postlapsarian indications overlap,
as with the description of Jacob’s above-mentioned, lamentably heavy treadon the land that still resembles an Edenic paradise before the Fall. Whenread in light of Morrison’s reference to the “probably nonexistent Eden” in“Home” (4), such an overlap speaks to the difficulty of distinguishing, inany precise or meaningful way, between the white Adam’s “prelapsarian”
and “postlapsarian” conditions in early post-Contact America. That is,although A Mercy does not completely demonize Jacob (he is cast as afallible human, not as Satan),12 it nevertheless implies that the white
American Adam always was a fallen Adam—even upon arrival, while enjoying the opportunity to start afresh in the New World. For this reason, Marc
C. Conner’s (152) comment that Morrison’s Adam “brings his corruption
with him” (a statement that may sound oxymoronic, because in theologicalcontexts Adam is assumed to have originally been pure and innocent) is on
the mark. Europeans arrived as colonizers and colonists, taking their rightto enter and settle in the New World for granted, as long as the relevant
authorities in their respective home countries/empires had permitted theiremigration (and in some cases, as with stowaways, even if no such legal
permission existed). As Waegner (91) and Valerie Babb (147) emphasize, A
Mercy offers a corrective to the Pilgrim/Puritan-dominated narrative of thefirst decades of English settlement in America.13 The novel reminds us that
not everyone came to the New World to flee religious persecution or toparticipate in the life of a newly formed theocratic society; for many,
migration was precipitated by much more worldly concerns. Myriad
English colonists came to the New World in search of a materially better
life, which was to be acquired on their (or, more generally, on the Euro-

12

See my brief discussion, in the “Conclusion” below, of Tessa Roynon’s comparison of
Jacob to Milton’s Satan.
13
Babb aptly notes that “Morrison uses much of the language of the ‘grand myth’ torewrite it, and in so doing indicts its lapses” (147). Babb’s usage of “grand myth” evokes
Waegner’s statement (which Babb quotes verbatim) that A Mercy “recalls the vexedintercultural beginnings of the settlement of the New World—rather than the grandmyth of a chosen people’s compact with God to establish an exemplary City upon a Hill”(Waegner 91). Babb places A Mercy in dialogue with such American “origins
narratives”—sources of “a mythohistory of American origins” (147)—as William
Bradford’s Of Plymouth Plantation, John Winthrop’s “A Modell of Christian Charity”(which Waegner ironically references above), Ralph A. Hamor’s A True Discourse of the
Present Estate of Virginia, and John Smith’s A Map of Virginia.

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peans’) terms. Those terms had disastrous consequences for Native Americans, as well as for first-generation African arrivals and their descendants.
In the Virginian/Edenic scene, the American Adam’s discovery of “anold Lenape trail” (10) serves as an early indicator that the seemingly“virginal” terrain on which he treads had, in the past, had an intimate andwell-functioning relationship with local tribes, who had lived off the land
without exploiting it. In the same scene, Jacob also reflects on the catastrophic consequences of Bacon’s rebellion for the region’s natives, as noted
above—“the slaughter of opposing tribes and running the Carolinas off
their land” (10). In the novel in its entirety, however, it is Lina who is themost visible embodiment of the Native Americans experiencing marginalization, displacement, and even extermination in the novel’s present. By
1682–1690, King Philip’s or Metacom’s War (the 1675–76 watershed eventin early American conflicts over land between Native Americans andEuropean settlers in the Northeast) has already taken place and set thecourse for a future of white dominion. As Lina’s internal monologue reveals, “Her people had built sheltering cities for a thousand years and […]might have built them for a thousand more” (54), but “the Europes neither
fled nor died out. […] [L]ike all orphans they were insatiable” (54). Lina’s
perspective on Atlantic America—together with “Milton” (112) as thedesignation of where the Vaarks live14 (a name that unmistakably suggests,
for the reader, an irretrievable Eden)—emphasizes that any alleged“paradise,” if it ever existed, has already been irrevocably lost:15 the white
American Adam’s arrival/fall has resulted in a change that cannot be
undone.

Jacob’s Three Houses
As befits Lina’s role as a foil to the worldview of white colonists, much of
the novel’s most explicit criticism of the fallen Jacob’s avarice is focalized
through her consciousness. As Lina’s retrospective reflections on Jacob’s
three houses reveal, his eventual choice to embrace materialism—an option
made possible by his participation, direct or indirect, in the Atlantic slave
trade—makes him prioritize a “house,” or a grand mansion, over a “home”
14

A Mercy does not clarify whether “Milton” refers to Jacob’s demesne or to the “hamlet
founded by Separatists” (33) that is located some seven miles from his farm. Somescholars, therefore, treat Milton as the name of Jacob’s estate, others as the name of the
nearby village.
15
For analyses of A Mercy’s intertextual dialogue with Milton’s Paradise Lost, seeRoynon, “Her Dark Materials”; and Roynon, “Miltonic Journeys.”

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LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY(to evoke again the “radical distinction” that Morrison makes between thetwo in “Home,” 3). In 1682, when Jacob visits the D’Ortega household in
Maryland, he still lives in what represents, or at least most closely resembles,a genuine “home” in the narrative—that is, the second house on his farm.
The first house was, according to Lena, “weak[]” (43); Jacob’s decision to
replace it with a new one was therefore based on legitimate need. However,Lina recalls that “the second one was strong” (43): Jacob “tore down the firstto lay wooden floors in the second with four rooms, a decent fireplace andwindows with good tight shutters” (43). Because the second house was solid
and warm, there was, in Lina’s opinion, “no need for a third” (43).
Morrison’s narrative validates Lina’s view by making much of the “era” ofthe second house coincide with a relatively stable time period in the Vaarks’
life: both Jacob and Rebekka work energetically on the farm, their marriage
is marked by mutual respect, and there are children in the household who
supply meaning to their parents’ existence (although this joy is short-lived,
as all of the children die, one after the other).
However, the construction of the third house, made possible by profits
from the Caribbean/Atlantic rum trade, denotes a shift in Jacob’s (now,without any ambiguity, the fallen Adam’s) disposition: after being seized bymaterialistic greed and envy at Jublio (27), Jacob goes from being content
with a solid home to desiring a grandiose house that, on the narrative’s
symbolic level, epitomizes an insatiable ambition to own more, that is, topossess and display for the mere sake of possessing and displaying. In Lina’s
words, “at the very moment when there were no children to occupy or
inherit it, he meant to build another, bigger, double-storied, fenced andgated like the one he saw on his travels” (43). The mansion that Jacob builds
may be a “father’s house of many rooms” (to evoke Morrison’s ironic riff ona famous New Testament phrase in “Home,” 3), but because the father’schildren are dead, the construction project is both unnecessary and wasteful. Given Lina’s intimate relationship with nature and the land, she isparticularly offended by Jacob’s decision to fell as many as fifty trees tobuild his third house: “Killing trees in that number, without asking theirpermission, of course his efforts would stir up malfortune” (44)—anominous anticipation proven correct by Jacob’s death during the final stageof the project.
What makes the trope of the white Adam’s fall from grace all the more
ironic and tragic in the narrative is that, prior to his 1682 visit to Jublio,
Jacob had always thought of the use of slave labor as a “degraded business”(31). At Jublio, he was emotionally and physically “nauseated” (22) by the116

AFTER EDEN - VALKEAKARI

overt presence of slavery in the D’Ortega household. However, his triumphant encounter, in the role of creditor, with the financially troubled slave
trader reminded Jacob, stirring his greed, that in the New World the only
thing separating him, a lowly farmer with humble origins, from “richgentry” (27), such as the D’Ortegas, was material wealth; in America, noaristocratic family lineage was required for upward mobility. Later thatevening, Jacob was subjected to enthusiastic tavern talk about the “beneficial effects” (29) of the Caribbean rum trade, a form of early Atlantic
capitalism16 that was supposedly easy to learn, master, and reap quickprofits from. His decision to “look into it” (32) signals his fall. However,unlike D’Ortega, Jacob was determined to keep the evil of slavery out of his
domestic sphere. Like English absentee owners, whose slaves toiled onremote Caribbean sugar islands out of sight, he, too, wanted his domestic
life to be based far away from the growing, cutting, and cooking of sugar
cane—the work done by slaves. The geographical distance between Milton
and any sugar island facilitated the mental compartmentalization that
helped him to justify the enterprise to himself: “There was a profounddifference between the intimacy of slave bodies at Jublio and a remote labor
force in Barbados. Right? Right, he thought” (35).17 That same night, whilewashing his hands after a day that had included an encounter with an
injured, bleeding raccoon (11), he—in a brief but chilling scene—at thesame time metaphorically washed away “the faint trace of coon’s blood”(35), that is, any reminder of black slaves’ blood (given the use of “coon” asa racial slur).
However, despite Jacob’s hypocritical attempt to wash his hands ofslavery, or to wash away his guilt for benefiting from the use of slave labor,
his “fall” signifies participation in a profoundly evil venture, as the ironsnakes on the gate of his third house affirm for the reader. A Mercy isheavily laden with biblical, Miltonic, and other familiar symbolism resonantwith early modern thought. Accordingly, the “divine punishment” that
Jacob receives for his “sins” is also one of epic (or, in this case, dramatic—
namely, Shakespearean) proportions, literally amounting to “plague on both
his houses,” to paraphrase Mercutio’s famous line in Romeo and Juliet
16
As for whether the use of the term “capitalism” is appropriate in this seventeenthcentury context, see, for example, Joyce Appleby’s remark that “nowhere is the profitmaximizing imperative of capitalism more in evidence than in the sugar sweep in
Europe’s New World colonies” (127). Appleby views seventeenth-century England as thecradle of the developments that led to the rise of modern capitalism (13–15).
17
Wardi (31) and Anderson (133–34) also highlight the importance of this passage forthe novel as a whole.

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LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY(III.i.95). As Jacob comes down with a fatal case of “pox” (37)—that is,smallpox (132)—his fallen condition is evident in his tragic inability tothink about anything but his new possession, which now “possesses” him:
instead of passing away with dignity in the building that has been home tohim and his family for years, the dying patriarch insists on being carried
into his new, almost complete mansion. This desire, an indication of Jacob
having completely surrendered to materialism, reveals that his effort to keep
the dark side of his business ventures from interfering with his domestic
sphere has failed miserably: his participation in early Atlantic capitalism has
profoundly changed him. Blinded by the Atlantic rim’s “golden fog,” he has
no longer focused his energies and efforts on the family/community
formation at “home” but, instead, on the construction of the “house” (torefer, again, back to Morrison’s home/house distinction)—and the latter isthe only thing that matters to him in his final hour. In a nightmarish,
Gothic scene, which the reader can only access through the memories of thefemale characters, Rebekka, Lina, Florens, and Sorrow obediently carry the
expiring, infectious patient from his “home” to his “house.” At any imaginable symbolic/spiritual level, this is a movement in the wrong direction.
Indeed, Lina, catching a glimpse of the iron snakes at the top of the “sinistergate” (51) as the barely breathing Jacob is being dragged inside, aptly feels“as though she were entering the world of the damned” (51).

“Race” and Racial Formations in A Mercy
Before Jacob’s passing, Rebekka, Lina, Florens, and Sorrow’s co-existence in
his second house and on his farm in many ways reflects the fluid characterof early Atlantic American racial arrangements, rather than representing“the house that race built.” True, the four women’s social roles are, to adegree, governed by early American society’s notions of slavery andservitude, because each of the three women of color occupies a position on
the spectrum of human bondage/servitude, with Rebekka as her mistress.
Yet, the interactions among the four women contain a certain amount ofelasticity as well, rather than being based on a completely rigid, raciallydetermined script. For example, Lina (the “young female already in charge”
when Rebekka first arrives on the farm; 53) and Rebekka (“the new wife”
and, from Lina’s point of view, an “awkward Europe girl”; 53) quickly
overcome their initial mutual mistrust and become allies in running thehousehold: “The animosity, utterly useless in the wild, died in the womb.
[…] The fraudulent competition was worth nothing on land thatdemanding” (53). The two realize that, as Mina Karavanta notes, “they118

AFTER EDEN - VALKEAKARI

could survive only by learning to live and share with each other” (733). The
narrative, in fact, here transcends both the mistress-slave/servant dialectic
and the discourse of mutual dependence by suggesting that, at least in Lina’sview, she and Rebekka “became friends” (53). Rebekka gradually forges anemotional bond with Florens as well, eventually feeling “a lot of affection
for her” (96), even though as a grieving mother she at first takes umbrage at
her husband’s assumption that bringing home a girl of their deceased
daughter’s age would be a consolation (96).
In other words, the multiethnic social world of the Atlantic America that
Morrison depicts is still at a very early stage of its formation—and, particularly in fairly isolated domestic units, such as Jacob’s farm, this state of flux
facilitates various homegrown social arrangements, including ones relatively indifferent to the emergent idea of “race.” (By contrast, in the closeknit Puritan community that Florens passes through during her “errand”[4] into the “wilderness” [5],18 the whites’ shared social perception of“blackness” is much more clearly—and inimically—defined.)19 It is true thatthe characters inhabiting A Mercy’s world are, as Jessica Wells Cantielloobserves, “all raced” (167). However, it is also true, as Cantiello adds, that“what these identities mean in 1690 is different from what they would meanin 1850 or in 2008 [the year that saw the presidential election of Barack
Obama for 2009–2012]” (167). In a 2008 NPR interview with Lynn Neary,Morrison said that in A Mercy she had wanted to “separate race fromslavery” by writing about an America that was still “fluid, ad hoc.” The
novel indeed demonstrates, throughout, Morrison’s powerful awareness not
only of the social constructedness of race, but also of the late seventeenth
century as a cusp era with regard to racial formations in America: on the
one hand, notions of racial difference had not yet ossified into a hard-andfast pseudoscientific ideology “devised to rationalize European attitudes andtreatment of the conquered and enslaved peoples” (to quote from theAmerican Anthropological Association’s 1998 Statement on “Race”); on the18
While Morrison here demonstrates familiarity with the terminology that Perry Miller
famously cultivated in Errand into the Wilderness (1964) and his other works, it iscertainly true, as Gustafson and Hutner observe, that A Mercy’s “colonial period draws
richly from recent historical and literary historical scholarship” (246; emphasis added),rather than narrowly focusing on the Puritans and their mindset (247).
19
The only individuals who show kindness to Florens in the Puritan village are two
females who are themselves outcasts in the community—namely, Widow Ealing and herdaughter; the latter has amblyopia (or “lazy eye”) and is therefore suspected of practicing
witchcraft. For a reading that discusses A Mercy together with the Salem witchcraft trials,
see Bross.

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other, the gradual hardening of racial attitudes had already begun.20 Both ofthese aspects of racialization in late-seventeenth-century America arepresent in A Mercy.21
Before Jacob dies, in the “era” of his second house all the four women
living on his farm participate in the formation of a shared “home,” bothliterally and in the more metaphorical, Morrisonian sense of participatingin “the job of unmattering race” through “a manageable, doable, modern
human activity” (Morrison, “Home” 3–4), however incomplete and flawed
this process may be. After Jacob’s demise, however, the tiny women’scommunity begins to fall apart, largely because of the era’s rigid genderroles: the New World being very little, if any, less patriarchal than the Old,
the women’s group cannot exist as an independent unit once the male headof the household is gone. During Rebekka’s struggle with smallpox, Lina’s
musings on her own, Sorrow, and Florens’s shared predicament speak to
the consequences of the era’s gender arrangement for women and girls,
especially for those in bondage or servitude:22
Don’t die, Miss. Don’t. Herself, Sorrow, a newborn and maybe Florens—
three unmastered women and an infant out here, alone, belonging to noone, became wild game for anyone. None of them could inherit; none
was attached to a church or recorded in its books. Female and illegal,
they would be interlopers, squatters, if they stayed on after Mistress died,subject to purchase, hire, assault, abduction, exile. (58)

The women’s vulnerability also arises from their lack of connection to an
outside community— some “encircling outside thing,” as Lena puts it (58).
Uninterested in religion and piety, Jacob and Rebekka were never active as acouple in the communal life of the local European settlers, a tight-knit
20

In articulating its position on how the modern notion of “race” came into being, theAmerican Anthropological Association places a strong emphasis on the “colonialsituation”: “Today scholars in many fields argue that ‘race’ as it is understood in the
United States of America was a social mechanism invented during the 18th century torefer to those populations brought together in colonial America: the English and other
European settlers, the conquered Indian peoples, and those peoples of Africa brought into provide slave labor. […] Thus ‘race’ was a mode of classification linked specifically topeoples in the colonial situation. […] As they were constructing US society, leadersamong European-Americans fabricated the cultural/behavioral characteristics associatedwith each ‘race,’ linking superior traits with Europeans and negative and inferior ones toblacks and Indians” (“Statement on ‘Race’”). For an overview of the rise of the idea ofrace in colonial Virginia, see Roediger, How Race Survived, chapter 1.
21
See also Waegner (92).
22
See also Gallego-Durán (104).

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Separatist group (whose members Morrison variously calls “Anabaptists” [e.g.
44, 97] and “Baptists” [e.g. 56, 57, 89], sometimes even using both designnations on the same page [98]). During Rebekka’s illness, however, Lina
realizes that the Vaarks’ seemingly self-sufficient isolation had, in fact,jeopardized the future of the farm’s women, who cannot survive in thewilderness by themselves: “Lina had relished her place in this small, tightfamily, but now saw its folly. [. . .] Their [Jacob and Rebekka’s] drift awayfrom others produced a selfish privacy and they had lost the refuge and theconsolation of a clan” (58). Rebekka arrives at the same conclusion. After
recovering from her illness, she turns to the locals for help. In exchange forthe sense of safety, security, and belonging that the Separatist community
offers her, she joylessly accepts their religious beliefs (153). The narrative also
implies that she will remarry soon, in order to be able to keep the farm (145).
The disintegration of the women’s community has different consequences for Rebekka than it does for the women of color. Being white,
Rebekka is able to save herself, although the era’s gender norms and therealities of frontier life mean that she must accept dependence on a maleprovider, or at least on the local community. Scully’s musings, similarly,reflect a burgeoning understanding of what the title of David R. Roediger’s
1991 book, a groundbreaking work in whiteness studies, famously calls “thewages of whiteness”: Morrison’s indentured servant, a white male, sees away forward and envisions an increased mobility and independence forhimself in the future (154). Lina, by contrast, is becoming much more of an
Other in the Vaark household than she had been before Jacob’s death.
Rebekka, whose newly discovered religion requires her to eradicate any“savage” characteristics from Lina, Sorrow, and Florens’s lives, now firmly
resumes her role as a mistress (rather than being a “friend”) and resorts toharsh educational and disciplinary measures (155). Florens’s situation is themost difficult: even as she is writing her self-discovery on the floor and wallsof a room in the late Jacob’s mansion (a pivotal aspect of the narrative,
frequently discussed in scholarship),23 she is, in fact, for sale (155; an equallycrucial aspect of the narrative, yet one often ignored by scholars).24 As an actof rebellion and resistance, Florens plans to burn the grandiose house down(161)—possibly with help from Lina (161), who once saw whites turn herhome village into ash. While at the novel’s conclusion the fates of the three23
See, for example, Anderson (141–44); Christiansë (188, 193–94); Conner (163–65);
Karavanta (727–29, 735–36, 739); Schreiber (170); and Wardi (34).
24
For instance, none of the analyses referenced in note 23 mentions that Florens is forsale when she writes her agency into being.

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women of color resonate with each other, the ending particularly
emphasizes that the same forces that made Florens’s mother a diasporicindividual will keep Florens, too, in a state of involuntary migrancy in the
New World, rather than providing her with a home.

Conclusion
In “Miltonic Journeys in A Mercy” (53–55), Tessa Roynon examines thesimilarities that she finds between Satan in Milton’s Paradise Lost and Jacobin A Mercy. In this article, I have, in contrast—taking my cue from A
Mercy’s passages that explicitly compare Jacob to Adam (58; 98)—discussed
Jacob as an “American Adam,” rather than as a biblical or Miltonic Satan
figure. While R.W.B. Lewis’s 1955 classic highlighted the important role ofthe trope of the American Adam in American Studies discourse, in 1964
Leo Marx famously put “the machine in the garden” in order to critique thepotential of the American pastoral ideal to serve “a reactionary or false
ideology” and to “mask the real problems of an industrial civilization”(Marx 7).25 Morrison, in turn, puts race, in addition to social class, in thegarden: she places the trope of the American Adam in dialogue with race,
racialization, and racism and, in so doing, urges us to examine the role that
racial formations played in American social relations even prior to theUnited States’ nationhood. My secular “Adamic” approach has, in otherwords, highlighted Morrison’s emphasis that racialization (which on
American soil quickly ossified into pseudo-scientific racism) became pervasive in the New World as a result of human actions, not by virtue of any
supernatural intervention, divine decree, or a “natural” order of things. It
logically follows from this emphasis that the fight against racism and discrimination also requires human activity—political, legal, and cultural.
Finally, critics have, correctly, identified resonances between A Mercy
and Morrison’s 1987 masterpiece, Beloved, such as the motif of a slave
mother harming or abandoning her daughter in order to protect the childfrom an even greater evil under the twisted circumstances of slavery. At theend of Beloved, the allegedly exorcised ghost/character Beloved—a haunting
re-incarnation of enslavement—still roams the woods, pregnant with a pastthat may, in some form, be born again in the future. Indeed, even today,
more than a quarter of a century after its publication, Beloved still reminds
us that the legacy of slavery is present in American life in ways that have not25

For a brief but useful overview of the late-twentieth-century debate over the notion of
the American self as an Adamic self, see Whalen-Bridge (304–306).

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been successfully worked through. A Mercy delivers a message that is in
keeping with that of Beloved, but with a particular focus on theconstructedness of “race”: Morrison’s ninth novel emphasizes that the ideaof “race” is a consequence of the American Adam’s “fallen” condition (thatis, of materialistic greed and its social and political applications from theearly modern era onwards), not a category derived from any allegedly
neutral “nature.” It is a well-known fact in current America that the electionof Barack Obama as President did not, in itself, magically transform theUnited States into a post-racial society; the structural effects of racism arestill powerfully present today. A Mercy, published in the same month thatsaw Mr. Obama’s election to the presidency,26 challenges us to reflect longand hard on how we can make “the job of unmattering race” into “amanageable, doable, modern human activity” (Morrison, “Home” 3–4) andhow we can participate in such an activity both locally and globally.

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26
For an article-length discussion of the terms “pre-racial” and “post-racial” in thecontext of the 2008 U.S. presidential election and the publication of A Mercy, see
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Web. 9 Sept. 2013.
Jennings, La Vinia Delois. “A Mercy: Toni Morrison Plots the Formation of
Racial Slavery in Seventeenth-Century America.” Callaloo 32.2 (2009):
645–49. Project Muse. Web. 9 Sept. 2013.
Karavanta, Mina. “Toni Morrison’s A Mercy and the Counterwriting of Negative Communities: A Postnational Novel.” Modern Fiction Studies 58.4
(2012): 723–46. Project Muse. Web. 9 Sept. 2013.
Lewis, R.W.B. The American Adam: Innocence, Tragedy and Tradition in the
Nineteenth Century. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1955. Print.
Marx, Leo. The Machine in the Garden: Technology and the Pastoral Ideal in
America. New York: Oxford UP, 1964. Print.
Miller, Perry. Errand into the Wilderness. Cambridge, MA: Belknap P of Harvard UP, 1964. Print.

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Moore, Geneva Cobb. “A Demonic Parody: Toni Morrison’s A Mercy.” The
Southern Literary Journal 44.1 (2011): 1–18. Project Muse. Web. 9 Sept.
2013.
Morrison, Toni. “Back Talk: Toni Morrison.” Interview by Christine Smallwood. Nation. Nation, 8 Dec. 2008. Web. 20 Aug. 2013.
—. Beloved. New York: Knopf, 1987. Print.
—. The Bluest Eye. 1970. New York: Knopf, 2000. Print.
—. “Home.” The House That Race Built: Original Essays by Toni Morrison,
Angela Y. Davis, Cornel West, and Others on Black Americans and Politics
in America Today. 1997. Ed. Wahneema Lubiano. New York: Vintage,
1998. 3–12. Print.
—. Home. New York: Knopf, 2012. Print.
—. Jazz. 1992. London: Picador, 1993. Print.
—. A Mercy. New York: Knopf, 2008. Print.
—. Paradise. New York: Knopf, 1998. Print.
—. “Toni Morrison Discusses A Mercy.” Interview by Lynn Neary. NPR.org.
NPR, 27 Oct. 2008. Web. 1 Sept. 2013.
—. “Toni Morrison On Bondage And A Post-Racial Age.” Interview by Michel
Martin. NPR.org. NPR, 10 Dec. 2008. Web. 1 Sept. 2013.
Painter, Nell Irvin. The History of White People. New York: Norton, 2011. Print.
Peterson, James Braxton. “Eco-Critical Focal Points: Narrative Structure andEnvironmentalist Perspectives in Morrison’s A Mercy.” Stave and Tally 9–21.
Roediger, David R. How Race Survived US History: From Settlement and Slavery
to the Obama Phenomenon. London: Verso, 2008. Print.
—. The Wages of Whiteness: Race and the Making of the American Working
Class. London: Verso, 1991. Print.
Roynon, Tessa. “Her Dark Materials: John Milton, Toni Morrison, and Concepts of ‘Dominion’ in A Mercy.” African American Review 44.4 (2011):
593–606. Project Muse. Web. 9 Sept. 2013.
—. “Miltonic Journeys in A Mercy.” Stave and Tally 45–61.
Schreiber, Evelyn Jaffe. Race, Trauma, and Home in the Novels of Toni Morrison. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State UP, 2010. Print.
Shakespeare, William. “Romeo and Juliet.” The Norton Shakespeare. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt et al. New York: Norton, 1997. 872–941. Print.
Stave, Shirley A. “Across Distances Without Recognition: Misrecognition in
Toni Morrison’s A Mercy.” Stave and Tally 137–50.
Stave, Shirley A., and Justine Tally, eds. Toni Morrison’s A Mercy: Critical Approaches. Newcastle upon Tyne, UK: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2011.
Print.
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Stepto, Robert B. A Home Elsewhere: Reading African American Classics in theAge of Obama. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2010. Print.
Tally, Justine. “Contextualizing Toni Morrison’s Ninth Novel: What Mercy?
Why Now?” Stave and Tally 63–84.
Valkeakari, Tuire. Religious Idiom and the African American Novel, 1952–1998.
Gainesville: UP of Florida, 2007. Print.
Vega-González, Susana. “Orphanhood in Toni Morrison’s A Mercy.” Stave and
Tally 119–135.
Waegner, Cathy Covell. “Ruthless Epic Footsteps: Shoes, Migrants, and theSettlement of the Americas in Toni Morrison’s A Mercy.” Post-National
Enquiries: Essays on Ethnic and Racial Border Crossings. Ed. Jopi Nyman.
Newcastle upon Tyne, UK: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2009. 91–112.
Print.
Wardi, Anissa. “The Politics of ‘Home’ in A Mercy.” Stave and Tally 23–41.
Whalen-Bridge, John. “The Myth of the American Adam in Late Mailer.” Connotations 5.2–3 (1995/96): 304–21. Literature Resource Center. Web. 9 Sept.
2013.

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Rethinking Race Matters

Aoi Mori
One longstanding element of the hierarchies characterizing American
society has been race; however, an explicit definition of this concept has
been elusive and ambiguous. Oppressors have manipulated the fluidity andvagueness of race-concepts to institutionalize slavery and then to perpetuate
a racial hierarchy with them on top. In order to maintain this hierarchy,
moreover, various tactics have been conceived, such as propaganda promoting fear of miscegenation and the “one-drop [of blood] rule,” whosecriteria, despite being irrational and unaccountable, were widely acceptedand prevailed in American society for a long time.
Almost 150 years have passed since the abolition of slavery, and recent
years have seen the election of Barack Obama, the first African-Americanpresident of the United States. Obama’s political victories in 2008 and 2012
signify at least on some level the move to a post-racial era. At the beginningof his administration especially, some people wanted to believe in Obama’s
ability to change a racist society for the better. In reality, of course, it is premature to believe that race no longer matters. For instance, Valerie Smithpoints out,
Not only is it naïve to assume that the election of an African Americanpresident would mean the end of racism when so many markers of racialinequality still exist, but the urge to cloak oneself (or the nation) in the
mantle of “post-race” also betrays an eagerness, if not a desperation, toturn from the history and the current state of racial formations in thenation. (14)Toni Morrison, who is well aware that race continues to haunt American
society, has attempted to wrestle with the problems of racial formations in
America throughout her literary career. In this essay, I explore how the127

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concept of “race” is constructed in contemporary American society throughan examination of the socio-historical backgrounds embedded in
Morrison’s works, especially, The Bluest Eye (1970), A Mercy (2009), andDesdemona (2011). On the basis of these works, I will examine the skillfulstrategy Morrison uses to deconstruct the American racial hierarchy andrecover the narrative voices of people relegated to the periphery of society
for reasons of race.

Coded Racism
In a 2012 interview with Emma Brockes in the Guardian, Morrison describes her reaction to the Obama inauguration in January 2009. She notes:
I felt very powerfully patriotic when I went to the inauguration of Barack
Obama. I felt like a kid. The marines and the flag, which I never lookat—all of a sudden it looked … nice. Worthy. It only lasted a couple ofhours. But I was amazed, that music that I really don’t like—God Bless
America is a dumb song; I mean it’s not beautiful. But I really felt that,for that little moment. (Morrison and Brockes)

Morrison actually made public a letter of endorsement for Obama’s candidacy in 2008,1 so we can imagine how thrilled she was to witness him takethe oath of office.Yet Morrison’s participation in the optimistic post-racial
discourse of the Obama era goes only so far, for she is also all too aware of
the deep-rooted racism of American society and understands that Obama’s
victories do not mean the end of white domination. In the interview with
Brockes, she mentions the Republican presidential candidate Rick
Santorum’s controversial remarks on Obama during the 2012 presidential
campaign:
Did you see that the other day—Rick Santorum said “the man in the
Whitehouse is a government nig—uh?”1

In the letter, Morrison admires Obama as a candidate and expresses his suitability forthe position of president as follows: “In thinking carefully about the strengths of thecandidates, I stunned myself when I came to the following conclusion: that in addition
to keen intelligence, integrity and a rare authenticity, you exhibit something that has
nothing to do with age, experience, race or gender and something I don't see in othercandidates. That something is a creative imagination which coupled with brillianceequals wisdom.” (“Toni Morrison’s Letter to Barack Obama,” New York Observer,
January 28, 2008)

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Yes, he says he misspoke. Morrison bursts out laughing. “He said he
didn't say that! They used to say ‘government nigger’ when black people
got jobs in the post office, stuff like that. And that's what he was saying.”(Morrison and Brockes)

Of course, since the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s, political correctness in American society dictates that people should not overtly express
racist comments; instead, those who hold racist views often use codedwords for disguise, and such views might occasionally reveal themselves unconsciously.
In fact, it is immensely difficult to eliminate racial prejudice, as Morrison
contends in her essay “Home” (1997):
I have never lived, nor has any of us, in a world in which race did not
matter. Such a world, one free of racial hierarchy, is usually imagined or
described as dreamscape—Edenesque, utopian, so remote are thepossibilities of its achievement. (3)Although it may not be feasible to create a society free of racial hierarchy,
Morrison attempts to envision a literary world in which race does notmatter. In order to do so, she utilizes the power of language to help the
distressed and the hopeless retrieve their voice and integrity, and herinterrogation of the meaning of race is a recurring theme in her works.

The Destructive Force of Racism in The Bluest Eye
The Bluest Eye, Morrison’s first novel, is the story of those who are expelledfrom “home.” For instance, the Breedloves, who live in a storefront apartment, not only lack a safe home but are also later “put outdoors,” which is“the real terror of life” (17), as the narrator Claudia relates. The family is
gradually dismembered and dissimilated from the community, with thefather (Cholly) sent to prison, the son (Sammy) running away, and themother (Pauline) and daughter (Pecola) ostracized by the community andliving in isolation. Once they are put outdoors, they are doomed to suffer a
destructive fate.
The Dick and Jane basal reader introduced at the beginning of the story
sets the white middle-class family as the norm in society and the reference
point for the regulation of cultural, historical, and social codes; accordingly,
it needs to be dismantled. Morrison’s deconstructive intention is manifested
in her destruction of a paragraph from the Dick and Jane primer, gradually
breaking down its grammar and with it the symbolic order:
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Here is the house. It is green and white. It has a red door. It is very
pretty. Here is the family. Mother, Father, Dick, and Jane live in thegreen-and-white house. They are very happy. See Jane. She has a red
dress. She wants to play. Who will play with Jane? […] See mother.
Mother is very nice. Mother, will you play with Jane? Mother laughs.
Laugh, Mother, laugh. See Father. He is big and strong, Father, will you
play with Jane? Father is smiling. Smile, Father, smile […]Here is the house it is green and white it has a red door it is very pretty
here is the family mother father dick and jane live in the green-andwhite house […]Hereisthehouseitisgreenandwhiteithasareddooritisveryprettyhereist
hefamily ….
(The Bluest Eye 3–4)

The first paragraph describes a typical white middle-class family and symbolizes the American dream of a happy family life, from which Pecola is
excluded. In the second paragraph, Morrison erases the capital letters andpunctuation marks. In the third paragraph, she even discards spaces between words, which makes the passage incomprehensible and meaningless.
This disruption symbolizes Pecola’s mental disorder and eventual failure, as
she is cast out by the community in the end.
Furthermore, the early versions of the Dick and Jane primer (like the one
in the book) depict only white people, underscoring the absence of AfricanAmericans in mainstream American society. As Carole Kismaric andMarvin Heiferman point out in Growing Up with Dick and Jane (1996),
which explains the social and historic background of the primer from the
1930s to the 1960s, it was not until the sixties that an African-American
family was introduced to the series. This family is described as follows:
They’re here! Mike and the cute little twins, Pam and Penny. Their
pretty Mother and handsome Father are here too. It’s 1965, and they’rethe new neighbors who live next door or maybe just down the block.
They make great new friends for Dick and Jane and Sally […].
Mike is just like Dick. He’s the same height, wears the same kind ofclothes and runs around just as much. Mike’s a leader too. He is Dick’s
first real friend, and more than his match at games, bike-riding andmaking up new things to do. Mike is great at guessing games. He
organizes puppet shows, makes chalk drawings on Dick’s driveway andputs on a play that makes everyone laugh. Mike’s a gentleman too, neat
and well-behaved. (Kismaric and Heiferman 98–99)
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Although Mike’s family appears to be warmly received to the neighborhood
by Dick’s family, we can strongly suspect that the community was raciallysegregated before they came. Moreover, the quotation above implies that
only the African-American families who behave like white people and dress
like them are welcomed to the neighborhood; that is, to the degree possible,
African-American faces, culture, and history should be eradicated.
In this context, Pecola’s family is much less likely than Mike’s family tobe accepted by the neighbors into the newly integrated community. They
could hardly be less like the image of a “good” family depicted in theprimer. Her alcoholic, abusive father Cholly is nothing like a gentleman,and her mother Pauline who is a domestic servant working for a wealthy
white family and fantasizing that their house is hers, neglects her own
family and cannot even show affection to her own daughter, whom she
perceives as “ugly” (126). Pecola’s parents never laugh, smile, or play with
their children. What is worse, the parents find the closest thing they have toa raison d’être in the strife and violence of their relationship. In a sense, thiscouple, who are struggling every day in a racist society and deprived of theirdignity and identity, might find that fighting is the only means available forthem to relieve their anger, frustration, and stress. They certainly do not fit
the image of the merry, fun-loving family depicted in the Dick and Janeprimer.
In contrast to Cholly and Pauline, it is Geraldine, the mother of Pecola’sclassmate Junior, who manages to mostly meet white standards as she
attempts to reproduce the habits of white people, suppressing any trace ofAfrican-American culture or lifestyle. She admonishes her son not to playwith “niggers,” because “[c]olored people were neat and quiet; niggers weredirty and loud” (87). In order to mold her son into a model “coloredperson,” neat and well behaved, she pays careful attention to his appearance: she dresses him in white shirts and blue trousers, the same kind ofclothes that Dick might wear. She pays particular attention to Junior’s hair,
instructing the barber to cut it as close to his scalp as possible so that his
woolly curls will not show and to etch a part into his hair to approximate awhite boy’s hairstyle.
Geraldine’s obsession with eradicating African-American traits from herfamily derives from her education at teachers’ colleges and normal schools
in the South, where the students “learn[ed] how to do the white man’s workwith refinement: home economics to prepare his food; teacher education to
instruct black children in obedience” (83). Instilled with racialized prejudicein the guise of education, she trades her own racial identity and pride for131

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lessons in “[t]he careful development of thrift, patience, high morals, andgood manners. In short, how to get rid of the funkiness. The dreadfulfunkiness of passion, the funkiness of nature, the funkiness of the wide
range of human emotions” (83).
However, Junior, brought up by his mother to suppress his “funkiness”
and “human emotions,” does not receive love from her and inevitably has
difficulty showing his feelings and communicating with others. Geraldine’s
house, which only superficially reproduces standards of white décor as
dictated by the mainstream culture, lacks warmth or a feeling of welcome.
Moreover, Geraldine too is subject to racism, because from the perspectiveof the whites she encounters there is no difference between “colored people”
and “niggers.” Ultimately, Geraldine has to imprison herself in her house to
avoid discrimination, racism, and the destruction of her carefully constructed fantasy. Thus, the depiction of the happy and assimilated AfricanAmerican family in the Dick and Jane reader camouflages racial struggles
that a lot of African-Americans have experienced.

The Construct of Race in A Mercy
Morrison’s ninth novel, A Mercy, traces history back to the Colonial period(specifically, late-seventeenth-century New England) in order to re-examine
the institutionalization of the American racial hierarchy. The novel
embodies Morrison’s attempts
to separate racism from slavery, ‘to see how it was constructed, planted
deliberately in order to protect the ruling class’ from the ‘unpaid labour’on which their new civilisation and wealth depended.” (Morrison andRustin, “Predicting the Past”)

During this era, according to Morrison, there was no explicitly racial aspect
to the social hierarchy. At least until the first captured Africans werebrought to Jamestown in 1619 as the labor force, white indentured laborers
were exploited to cultivate the new world. Moreover, until the 1670s,
Africans and their descendants who worked as indentured servants were
liberated in the same way as their white counterparts when their term ofservice expired, and some of them even became landowners. However, inthe 1670’s Virginia passed a law authorizing non-Christians—Africans andtheir descendants and Native Americans—to be enslaved for life. Thus, race
(disguised as religion or culture) was increasingly enshrined in legal andconventional ways of doing things in the seventeenth century.

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In the course of her research for A Mercy, one of the books Morrison cameacross was White Cargo, a nonfiction book written by Don Jordan andMichael Walsh (Norris, “Toni Morrison”). The book starts with thediscovery in Maryland in 2003 of the skeleton of a boy buried in trash. The
authors set out to uncover the boy’s identity and find that the burial can betraced back to the seventeenth century and that the boy had been a whiteindentured laborer who was similar to a slave both legally and in theconditions of his life. In relating this boy’s history, Jordan and Walshunderline that slavery in America was not limited to black Africans andtheir descendants but was also inflicted on a fairly large scale on white
European indentures.2 In an interview with Michele Norris, Morrisoncomments that when she read the book she was surprised to learn thatmany white Americans are the descendants of slaves, and it is this institution that Morrison explores in A Mercy.
The book relates the painful histories of its central characters. Florens is
a slave girl who is handed over to farmer and trader Jacob Vaark by her own
mother, whom she refers to in Portuguese as “minha mãe.” Vaark is anabandoned orphan himself, and his wife Rebekka is a mail-order brideshipped from England by her destitute father. Their servants—Lena, a
Native American girl, and Sorrow, the mixed-blood daughter of a sea
captain—are orphans. In the beginning, despite the differences in race andbackground, they are all vulnerable and work together to survive in theharsh environment of the colony. In fact, Jacob Vaark, raised on the street
in London, lacks the practical skills to cultivate the land and the knowledgeof nature to survive in the wilderness; he has to listens to Lena and a free
African-American blacksmith, both of whom have the needed knowledge.
Thus, race is not at first a dividing line, a fact further emphasized by thejuxtaposition of the neighbor’s white European indentured servants,
Willard and Scully, with the blacksmith, a free black man. Vaark commissions the blacksmith to do work for him from time to time, as he greatly
appreciates his skills. Their partnership is equal despite the difference inrace although the blacksmith’s namelessness might foreshadow his imminent marginalization.
Jacob Vaark begins to change when he gets involved with the Caribbean
rum trade. He begins to make substantial profits with little effort, and work2

For further discussion of the discovery of the skeleton and Jordan and Walsh’s intention to publish a book about white indentures, see the introduction to White Cargo, “In
the Shadow of the Myth” (11-19).

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on the farm grinds to a halt as a result. Jacob isolates himself from the restof the household, creating a hierarchical power structure. Accumulating
wealth from trade, he attempts to demonstrate his power and substance andbuilds a huge mansion, “befitting not a farmer, not even a trader, but asquire” (88). The mansion, which he forbids the others to enter, represents
the exclusive “house” of patriarchy. However, he dies before the mansion iscompleted. Vaark’s failed attempt to build a castle indicates that his dreamof maintaining a racialized house, made possible because of his profits fromthe slave trade, is nevertheless ultimately in vain.
Morrison’s critique of Colonial-era race relations and racism is rooted inthis story. She reinforces the significance of retrieving the forgotten andheretical narrative of Florens, who sneaks into Vaark’s unfinished house
after his death to record her life stories on the floor and the wall using theletters she secretly learned from a benevolent Catholic priest, alongside hermother. In the beginning, she addresses her stories to the blacksmith, who
has rejected her love, but in the process of remembering her past she starts
to recover lost ties with her mother, a slave, who was forced to hand Florens
over to Vaark in exchange for a debt that her master D’Ortega could not
pay Vaark back. Abandoned not only by the blacksmith but also by her own
mother, Florens feels a constant sense of sorrow and loss. In recording her
stories, she comes to articulate her identity, saying, “Slave. Free. I last”(161). Florens appropriates the power of written language and takes overthe patriarchal house of Vaark to liberate herself, at least psychologically.
Moreover, her telling evokes her mother’s stories, presented in the next
section, which reveal the reason why she agreed to give away her daughter
to Vaark: she wanted to protect Florens from sexual abuse by the master,
D’Ortega. Thus, she sent Florens away with Vaark, who saw the girl as “ahuman child” (166), not a sexual object as D’Ortega did. Morrison ends thenovel by uniting the mother and the daughter through their juxtaposed
narratives, as if they were talking to each other beyond space and time.

Questioning the Concept of Race in Desdemona
One of Morrison’s latest works is a play, Desdemona, which was produced
for the stage in Vienna in May 2011 in collaboration with director Peter
Sellars and composer/actor Rokia Traoré and then published in 2012. It is a
response to Shakespeare’s Othello (1604). It is told from the perspective ofDesdemona and focuses on her relationship with her childhood nursemaid,
Barbary (named such because she was taken from the Barbary Coast, that is,the coastal Maghreb), who had committed suicide after a failed love affair.
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RETHINKING RACE MATTERS - MORI

The play is set in the world of death, where Desdemona resides after being
strangled by Othello. Morrison places Desdemona’s attachment to her
nursemaid at the center of the play, relating that it is because of her love for
Barbary and all the intriguing stories Barbary had told her about Africa that
Desdemona fell in love with Othello; at first sight, Othello reminded her ofBarbary. The scene in which Desdemona and Othello meet for the first timeis recalled by Desdemona as follows:
Bountifully fed, they began to dance—partnered, formal, predictably
flirtatious. Hoping to exit the mockery, I stood and moved toward myfather to ask to be excused. Among those huddled around his chair was
this mass of a man. Tree tall. Glittering in metal and red wool. A
commander’s helmet under his arm. As I approached, he turned to letme pass. I saw a glint of brass in his eyes identical to the light in
Barbary’s eyes. I looked away, but not before his smile summoned myown. I don’t remember what I murmured to my father to explain myapproach. I was introduced to the Commander; he kissed my hand, held
it and requested a dance. “By your leave, Senator Brabantio?” In
accented language his voice underscored the kiss. (23)What is noteworthy is that Othello, an African soldier, is allowed to attend aparty that the Venetian nobleman Brabantio holds to find his daughter asuitable husband. Eventually Desdemona marries Othello, which meansthat her parents approve at least tacitly of their interracial marriage.
Consider as a counterexample the situation in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone
With the Wind (1936). It is almost impossible to imagine an African or
African-descended suitor allowed to be near Scarlett O’Hara. The novel is
set in Atlanta and rural Georgia during the Civil War and Reconstruction,
an era in which racism was completely embedded in the culture and society;as a result, miscegenation is totally abhorred, and black people are relegatedto the margins and made invisible. Morrison’s scene in Desdemona is thus a
response to more contemporary attitudes, emphasizing that the figure of thewhite supremacist is a product of late-modern colonialism and the Enlightenment and that previous eras such as Shakespeare’s early modern Englandor the medieval Mediterranean that Othello depicts were not racialized inanything like the same way.
Furthermore, in Desdemona, Morrison attempts to recover the voice andpresence of Africa, which have often been silenced and misrepresented by
the white-dominated Western societies. The scene in which Desdemonareencounters Barbary in the world of death reveals the racial hierarchy that135

LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY

existed between them when they were alive: although Desdemona believes
that Barbary was her best friend, the latter demurs, saying, “I was yourslave” (45). In the world of death, however, Barbary subverts the power
structure to recover her identity, reclaiming her own name, Sa’ran, and thehistory of her people, who live in a colonized land. She admonishes
Desdemona for her naïve image of “Barbary”:
SA’RAN: I mean you don’t even know my name. Barbary? Barbary iswhat you call Africa. Barbary is the geography of the foreigner, thesavage. Barbary? Barbary equals the sly, vicious enemy who must be put
down at any price; held down at any cost for the conquerors’ pleasure.
Barbary is the name of those without whom you could neither live nor
prosper. (45)Explicating her colonized status, Sa’ran reminds Desdemona that it was
only because of her subjugated rank as a slave that she had served the girland satisfied all her needs. In articulating the real nature of their former
relationship, Sa’ran’s voice is restored, and Desdemona listens to her while
also trying to foster a nurturing sisterhood between them, as both of them
are women who share the same experience of being abused by men whomthey love.
Furthermore, Morrison’s creation in the play of two characters who do
not appear in Othello—Madam Brabantio, the mother of Desdemona, andSoun, the mother of Othello—also displays her intention to transcend class,racial, and even religious differences. The two women meet after theirchildren, Desdemona and Othello, die. Despite the fact that they are enemies, as Desdemona was killed by Othello, they are also bound together as
mothers, sharing the grief of losing a child. They are of different religions:
Madam Brabantio is a Catholic who prays to “Mother Mary” (27), while
Soun speaks to her own gods, not the almighty Christian God. Yet theytranscend these differences too, by building “an altar to the spirits who are
waiting to console [them]” (27). The altar they build together fills the gap
between them, representing the hope that they can overcome the differencesby sharing each other’s pain. Their prayers will merge into one voice,recovering and asserting the presence of the subjugated.

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RETHINKING RACE MATTERS - MORI

Conclusion
With the advent of European colonialism, beginning before Shakespeare’s
period in the so-called Age of Exploration, from the late fifteenth century,
but not achieving the status of a world-system until the eighteenth andnineteenth centuries, Western conquerors of non-Western societies imposed Christianity and institutionalized racial hierarchies, placing themselves on top of the social scale in subjugated places. In contrast, during themedieval period, it was the Islamic power that prospered in Turkey andNorthern Africa and controlled much of the world. It was the establishmentof global capitalism, rooted in colonialism and Western industrialism that
accelerated white supremacy, resulting in the construction of a whitedominated racist hierarchy that relegated people of color to the periphery in
the United States as well as in other places.
Toni Morrison has long defied the destructive legacy of these racialhierarchies and attempted to move beyond racial prejudice and stereotypes
by returning to a pre-racialized time. Morrison’s works generate spaces freeof racism and, significantly, lay the foundations of a space where “race does
not matter,” in contradistinction to the exclusive, racialized house.
Morrison reconstructs a new space beyond the segregating, detrimental
black/white dichotomies of race and beyond differences of gender andreligion as well.

Works Cited
Jordan, Don and Michael Walsh. White Cargo: The Forgotten History of Britain’s White Slaves in America. NY: NYUP, 2007. Print.
Kismaric, Carole and Marvin Heiferman. Growing Up with Dick and Jane:
Learning and Living the American Dream. New York: HarperCollins, 1996.
Print.
Morrison, Toni. The Bluest Eye. 1970. New York: Plume, 1993. Print.
—. Desdemona. Lyrics Rokia Traoré. Foreword Peter Sellars. London: Oberon,2012. Print.
—. “Home.” The House That Race Built. Ed. Wahneema Lubiano. New York:
Vintage, 1998. Print.
—. A Mercy. New York: Knopf, 2008. Print.
—. “Toni Morrison’s Letter to Barack Obama.” The New York Observer. 28 Jan
2008. Web. 1 Nov. 2013.
137

LIVING LANGUAGE, LIVING MEMORY— and Emma Brockes. “Toni Morrison: ‘I Want to Feel What I Feel. Even If It’s
not happiness.’” Manchester Guardian. 13 Apr 2012. Web. 15 July 2013.
— and Susanna Rustin. “Predicting the Past.” Manchester Guardian. 1 Nov.
2008. Web. 3 Nov. 2013.
— and Christine Smallwood. “Back Talk: Toni Morrison.” The Nation. 19 Nov.
2008. Web. 3 Nov. 2013.
Norris, Michele. “Toni Morrison Finds ‘A Mercy’ in Servitude.” NPR Online.
27 Oct. 2008. Web. 3 Nov. 2013.
Smith, Valerie. Toni Morrison: Writing the Moral Imagination. West Sussex,
UK: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012. Print.

138

“This house is strange”:
Digging for American Memory of Trauma,
or Healing the “Social” in Toni Morrison’s Home

Laura Castor
When asked in an interview about the inspiration for her latest novel, Home
(2012), Toni Morrison characterizes “home” as a place where people “mayor may not like you, but they are not going to hurt you.”1 In contrast, shesays that “houses” in the 1950s, the period in which the novel is set, werepart of a larger collective American idea: “World War II was over. People
were buying houses, and everything was nice and comfortable. And I didn’t
think so.” (Morrison Interview with Torrence Boone). Morrison thoughtthat something underneath was being silenced, and in her novel she explores various forms of that silence.
As early as the book’s epigraph, Morrison introduces, in a poem, theword “house” to complicate the “home” of her title. To a reader not yetaware of the novel’s historical context, the word choice might appear to be asynonym for home. Yet in the “house” of the poem, the idea of a familiar
safe haven is turned into something uncannily2 unfamiliar: “This house isstrange/ Its shadows lie./ Say, tell me, why does its lock fit my key?”(Morrison, Home Epigraph). The question for the reader is whether or not
1

See also Morrison’s longer, more evocative image of “home” in her 1997 essay: “In thisnew space one can imagine safety without walls, can iterate difference that is prized but
unprivileged, and can conceive of a third, if you will pardon the expression, world‘already made for me, both snug and wide open, with a doorway never needing to beclosed’” (“Home,” 12).
2
I refer both to “uncanny” in the English sense of seeming to have a supernatural or
inexplicable, mysterious quality, and also as Gayatri Spivak uses it as the Freudianunheimlich, not at all homey or comfortable. Rather, it is “the entrance to the former
Heim [home] of all human beings, to the place where each one of us lived once upon atime and in the beginning” (Sigmund Freud, “The Uncanny” 245 qtd. in Spivak 74).

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there may be a difference between the “home” of the title and this or that“house.”In the novel, houses are discrete places located in towns, in states, and incountries that literally and figuratively “house” the expectations, thequestions, and the struggles of the main characters to find healing from thepersonal and societal violence they have experienced and internalized. The
ideal of “home,” on the other hand, is an imaginative space more than aconcrete reality. At worst, it is a childhood fantasy that is not possible in theworld as it is. At best, “home” represents a tentative yet resilient possibility. It
has many expressions, and is made palpable as Morrison’s characters, both intheir own idiosyncratic ways and together, try to find it in the social sphere, inthe sense that Carolyn Forché uses “the social” in her Introduction to Against
Forgetting: Twentieth-Century Poetry of Witness (31). For Forché, the moreusual distinction between the personal and political as space for social change
is problematic because on the one hand, the “political” may be too generalized, while speaking of the “personal” is often too short-sighted, and assumes
more and less individual choice than may be the case. In the “social” spaces
between these poles, however, there is room for contingent but more direct
action that connects the needs for personal healing with strategies that might
eventually have an influence on the political realm. Whether or not politicalchange results, real conflicts can be addressed, and perhaps worked throughin the realm of the “social” (Forché 31).
Morrison’s narration weaves together several interconnected social
spaces, especially through the stories of the main characters, Korean War
veteran Frank Money, and his younger sister Cee. Cee, her brother learns
soon after his return from the war, has been subjected to abusive experiments by a doctor in Atlanta, Georgia, who hired her to work for him. She
is teetering on a narrow ledge between life and death, and it becomesFrank’s mission to help her. Cee has her own story, which includes Frank’solder-brother affection and protection, but also a growing sense of innerstrength as a woman who can welcome his comfort but doesn’t need his
protection.
Cee and Frank’s personal development is influenced both directly andindirectly by the broader cultural silences of the Fifties, including the personal and political fears of many Americans that perhaps the post-war
world was less safe and comfortable than portrayed in the media. There was
the fear of communism outside US borders in the Korean War, and theanti-communism within US borders. In Home, fear of communism is also
inseparable from racial fears generated by the legacy of slavery in the South.
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Hostility toward political and racial “others” becomes part of a single, interwoven fabric inside various houses in the novel.
Along with the historical context of 1950s as a period of apparent
prosperity following the upheavals of World War II, Morrison says that asecond starting point for her novel was the “experimentation on helplesspeople” that took place during that decade (Morrison Interview with
Torrence Boone). Among the most notorious, and the one that Morrison
mentions as having directly influenced the development of Home was the
Tuskegee Study, a government-initiated project designed to observe theprogression of syphilis. From 1932 to 1972, 399 African American men withthe disease, and 201 who did not have it, were unknowingly made subjectsof this study. While those inflicted with syphilis were told that they werebeing treated for “bad blood,” U.S. Public Health Service officials wereconsciously withholding treatment from them (Bad N. pag.).
Granted, the idea of America as a land of promise where anybody canarrive and enjoy the rights to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness”
declared in the Declaration of Independence, has been challenged by writers
and activists from the time of the American Revolution.3
Nevertheless, the assumption of America as a land of freedom andequality for all remains alive in the popular imagination. It remains potent
as unfulfilled promise for many people (such as but not limited to minority
groups), including many of the writers who have spoken of its absence. Just
as clearly, the idea of America rings true for conservative white men who
see the ideal as a lost tradition in need of rejuvenation.
Morrison questions this popular rhetoric, and her narration expresses
the various ways that the ordinary but hidden effects of war in everyday life
complicate “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” For Morrison, war is
not the popularized “movie” where we want the friends of American liberty
to win, and the bad guys to lose. Instead, she makes war and the trauma that
accompanies it, familiar. Rather “war” is an idea as well as an extreme
experience on one end of a continuum, where at the other end we find“home.” These ideas of war and home move between the familiar and3
Throughout American literary history, imaginative writers from Nathanial Hawthorne
to Mark Twain, Herman Melville, Frederick Douglass and Harriet Jacobs in thenineteenth century, to William Faulkner, W.E.B. DuBois, Zora Neale Hurston, Kurt
Vonnegut, N. Scott Momaday, Leslie Marmon Silko, and numerous others in thetwentieth century have pointed to the gaps between the American promise of, and therealities of freedom. Since the 1960s, intellectual historians have drawn on their insights
to articulate these contradictions in what they term a “post-nationalist” approach toAmerican studies (Noble xxiii).

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unfamiliar as she locates them in various houses. In the novel, war is waged
not only on a battlefield, but also in the so-called privacy of the house,
which for some of the characters is as close to the ideal of “home” as they
have come. To use Forché’s approach, it might be said that the main
characters’ sense of dis-ease with the unheimlich atmosphere of their houses
leads them to create “the social” in relationships and spaces that allow themto do the slow work of healing.
The reader’s task is to keep asking questions about the apparent truths or
hidden lies the characters tell as they try to make sense of themselves as
whole, rather than traumatized men and women. Morrison provokes us to
pay attention without flinching from their traumas, and she leads us towitness their healing. Healing for Cee and Frank relates to “home” as atemporary but safe haven where strength and a sense of agency can become
real, for now and in the future. For Morrison’s characters, healing honors
rather than seeks to erase scars. It is represented poignantly in the image ofa tree at the end of the novel: “I stood there a long while, staring at that tree/
It looked so strong/ So beautiful./ Hurt right down the middle/But alive andwell” (Morrison, Home 147).
As readers we actively participate in her characters’ healing through themultiple voices of her narrators. Through Morrison’s shifts in narrative
perspective, we enter imaginatively into “the social” arena where the novel’s
cultural work takes shape. In many parts of the text we hear Morrison as
omniscient third person storyteller who confidently assumes the ability to
focalize events through the shifting perspectives and priorities of charactersin various places and times. We hear the narrating first person voice ofFrank who, at regular intervals, seems to talk back to the third person
narrator to reveal a different version of the Frank she narrates. Toward theend of the novel, Frank’s first person narrator seems to change his mind
about parts of his story. Although he admits to “lying” both to Morrison
and the reader, and to himself, we don’t know for sure whether it is only atthis point that he can recognize his “lies” or whether he deliberately misled
himself and us (Morrison, Home 133). These possibilities also suggest thatsome of what the third person narrator has relayed may be equallyunreliable.
The interplay between multiple narrating voices (in both first and third
person), and focalizing views (through the third person voice) is importantbecause it deepens the readers’ awareness about how necessary it is toquestion our ideas about truth, whether personal or collective—throughquestioning, we may build larger spaces for our own sense of “the social”
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both in our reading of the text, and in our worlds outside it. Truth ismultiple, and no one narrator or reader holds all its expressions. Yet truths
are partially shown through characters, and through the multiple sides ofFrank that we see through the different narrations. In narrative terms, thereader sees more deeply and broadly into the multi-layered identities of thecharacters through Morrison’s shifting narrative perspectives. In terms ofhistorical identity, we see, through their eyes, the multiple truths in American culture and history differently as time progresses and we gain new
knowledge about the complexities of the racial and gendered American
past. For Morrison, the responsibility of art is, as Eudora Welty expressed it,
paradoxically about “making reality real” (Welty 128).
Gayatri Spivak, in Death of a Discipline (2003), helps to bring these more
complex truths into our habitual talk about race and gender differences, toconcepts such as “mother, nation, god, nature” and, I would add, “home”(73). “If we imagine ourselves as planetary subjects rather than global
agents,” she says,
planetary creatures rather than global entities, alterity remains underived from us; it is not our dialectical negation, it contains us as muchas it flings us away. And thus to think of it is already to transgress, for, inspite of our forays into what we metaphorize, differently, as outer andinner space, what is above and beyond our own reach is not continuouswith us as it is not, indeed, specifically discontinuous (73).

With respect to Morrison’s shifting narrative perspectives, Spivak’s
reframing would mean that no single perspective, whether our own as
readers, or one of the narrators’ can offer a singular truth. Neither we, nor
the narrators or characters, are pure “agents” who accurately interpret thecore meaning of events. Yet neither is any one perspective untrue in alarger, dynamic planetary sphere where we participate together, but do notcontrol. The effort to deal adequately with societal problems of race andgender, in this view, does not end with social science studies seeking
representative truths for “women” or “African Americans” as groups. In
narrative terms, the corollary to such analytical categories would be to relyon the God’s eye perspective of a single omniscient narrator. Morrison’stapestry of various narrative perspectives is therefore central to her cultural
work toward healing the traumatic effects of American race and gender
oppression. For both Morrison and Spivak, the layers of difference andinjustice that create “others” who are seen as less human and worthy of
dignity, need to be unpacked, made unfamiliar and particular.
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The meaning of “home” necessarily includes the ability to heal in a way thatdares to remember—through imaginative power coupled with actual, visceral memory in a social sphere of time and place. For Morrison’s readers,
this might mean we have our own particular responses to violence of scenes
such as in the opening pages:[…] we saw them pull a body from a wheelbarrow and throw it into ahole already waiting. One foot stuck up over the edge and quivered, as
though it could get out, as though with a little effort it could breakthrough the dirt being shoveled in. We could not see the faces of themen doing the burying, only their trousers; but we saw the edge of aspade drive the jerking foot down to join the rest of itself. When [Cee]saw that black foot with its creamy pink and mud-streaked sole being
whacked into the grave, her whole body began to shake. (4)The shaking that Cee does is a beginning of her own healing. Peter Levine, in
In an Unspoken Voice describes shaking as one of the necessary ways thathumans, as animals do, begin to absorb and release the effects of trauma inand from their bodies, thus allowing themselves to begin to heal (9). It is
ironic that in the opening scene, Frank assumed that his role was to protect
his little sister, but here the reader sees that it is Cee whose healing begins
first.
As Cee’s recovery process started with her shaking, so Frank’s process
begins again after the war when he loses, and then regains his ability to see
color. Color disappeared when he had received his discharge papers in Fort
Lawton, Washington, and the world he saw had turned to black and white.
Whenever some color returns, the third person narrator tells us, he knew a
break from his post-traumatic stress was near (23). A break comes “under aNorthern oak, [where] the grass turned green”(24). The color green will
also, at the end of the novel, be the color, a more nuanced “olive green,” ofthe leaves of a sweet bay tree where Cee and Frank are finally able to give aproper burial to the person whose body they had seen thrown in the ditchin the opening chapter.
If we become aware of an ongoing trajectory of coming “home” thattakes various shapes and colors (such as the imagery of trees and the returnof color for Frank) throughout the novel, there also are other interlocking
stories about houses that complicate and connect the process. An important
related story is one about Frank and Lily, whom he meets and falls in lovewith in Chicago. Morrison narrates a story parallel to that of Frank and Ceethrough her story of Lily as focalizer. Spivak would understand this shift in144

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narrative perspective as about “collectivity” that is always contingent andpartial.4 Frank’s worldview cannot hold the perspective that Lily has. The
narrator observes:
Living with Frank had been glorious at first. Its breakdown was more ofa stutter than a single eruption. She had begun to feel annoyance rather
than alarm when she came home from work and saw him sitting on thesofa staring at the floor. One sock on, the other in his hand. (75)

The reader can imagine Frank with one bare foot, and remember that in the
opening scene of the body thrown into the hole, the body part the children
see is “that black foot with its creamy pink and mud-streaked sole” (4). As
disjointed and disconnected as Frank seems to Lily, the reader might also
recognize the connection to a larger process of coming to honor all of his
experiences, including this more seemingly mundane breakdown of domestic relations.
But while Frank works through his own complicated past, Lily has adifferent agenda, at least according to the narrator. (We do not have theprivilege of hearing her first-person story as we do Frank’s). For Lily, whotries to see Frank’s perspective, “underneath the pile of complaints [aboutFrank] lay her yearning for her own house. It infuriated Lily that he shared
none of her enthusiasm for achieving that goal” (75). This yearning is not asuperficial one in the context of 1950s American culture, when many more
Americans were able to afford their own houses than at any time in US
history (May 166). Yet what was not talked about in popular discourse wasovert prejudice against non-whites. Morrison notes in her interview with
Torrence Boone that Lily’s experience of reading an advertisement from a
realtor in a Chicago paper was taken from an actual announcement(Restrictive Covenants Database).
Lily traced the lines of print with her forefinger. No part of said property
hereby conveyed shall ever be used or occcupied by any Hebrew or by
any person of Ethiopian, Malay or Asiatic race excepting only employees
in domestic service.” (73)

In spite of the racially restrictive words in the housing covenant, she
continues to want to “buy that house or one like it (74). Frank, however, is
4Spivak includes an interesting discussion of “collectivity” in narrative in her reading ofVirginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own (43-45).

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not able to share her goal; nothing in his experience in Lotus, in the war, orin returning from the war, has made space for it as desirable or important.
Lily, in continuing to pursue her goal of owning her own house, comesfrom a more empowered place than either Cee or Frank. Her story isvaluable in allowing the reader to tie the various events of the novel back toMorrison’s title, and back to the historical context of American expectations
about prosperity during the Fifties.
The more nuanced stories of Frank and Cee’s development toward
wholeness is important to Morrison’s large narrative vision, however,
because they represent an extreme of what W.E.B. Dubois expressed as the“double consciousness” of being both American and African American thataffords an ability to see underlying power differences and injustices moreclearly (DuBois 12). For both Frank and Cee, empowerment is about
healing as self-healing in a supportive community that brings one closer tohome. In contrast, genuine healing does not happen in the houses andinstitutions of the medical establishment.
The medical “mastery” practiced in these houses expresses both thekinds of attitudes the US government demonstrated in experiments such as
the Tuskegee Study, and also, the practices of slave masters. Like the subjects of the Tuskegee Study, neither Frank nor Cee is aware of the dangers
confronting them. The reader, though, has a close-up view of Frank andCee’s unfolding experiences, and in that light, we see larger patterns ofracism: We sense the violence that could have happened to Frank throughthe third person dialogue between Frank, travelling back to Georgia, andthe minister ironically named John Locke who gives him a place to stayafter he escapes from a hospital:“You from down the street? At that hospital?”Frank nodded while stamping his feet and trying to rub life back into
his fingers.
Reverend Loc4ke grunted. “Have a seat,” he said, then, shaking hishead, added, “You lucky, Mr. Money. They sell a lot of bodies out of
there.”[. . .] Well, you know, doctors need to work on the dead poor so they
can help the live rich.” (12)When she begins working for the doctor in Atlanta, like Frank who isunaware of the danger just escaped as he sits on John Locke’s sofa, Cee’s
attention moves first to the comfort of the bed where she’ll be sleeping, rather
than seeing other more ominous signs in that house about the doctor:
146

“THIS HOUSE IS STRANGE” - CASTOR[. . .] she plopped on the bed, delighting in the thickness of the mattress.
When she pulled the sheets back she giggled at its silk cover. So there,
Lenore, she thought. What you sleep on in that broke-down bed you
got? Remembering the thin, bumpy mattress Lenore slept on, she
couldn’t help herself and laughed with wild glee. (63)

Cee is unable to recognize what the third person narrator sees in the designof Dr. Beau’s house. Whereas she views it is a refuge from memories ofabuse and abandonment, the reader notices a subtext of anti-communism,
racism, and misogyny. For example, Sarah, the domestic worker who
become Cee’s friend, a good one in that she later helps save her life throughthe letter she writes to Frank, says to Cee:
“Let me show you to your room. It’s downstairs and not much, but forsleep it’s as good as anything. It’s got a mattress made for a queen.”
Downstairs was just a few feet below the front porch—more of a shallow
extension of the house rather than a proper basement. Down a hall not
far from the doctor’s office was Cee’s room, spotless, narrow, andwithout windows. Beyond it was a locked door leading to what Sarah
said was a bomb shelter, fully stocked. She had placed Cee’s shopping
bag on the floor. Two nicely starched uniforms saluted from theirhangers on the wall. (63)While Cee’s gaze is lured to the soft mattress, the narrator shows the reader
the narrow, windowless room whose space seems designed to confine its
occupant. It insures that the doctor, with his office nearby, will maintaincontrol, not only over her workday, but over the most intimate aspects ofher life. As suggested by image of the “starched uniforms salut[ing] fromtheir hangers on the wall,” Cee even sleeps under his militaristic surveillance. The ghostly presence of invisible bodies on the hangers is a haunting
allusion to the lynching of blacks in the south, the practice of which we are
led to believe Dr. Beau, a “heavyweight Confederate,” would approve (62).
It is not likely a coincidence that the bomb shelter is next to Cee’s
windowless bedroom. His fear of outside Communist threats is accompanied by aggression, both active and passive, as he tries to maintain complete control over what happens in his house. This aggression means that hewill drug and sterilize Cee for the sake of his work as a “scientist” (61). His
control is political, racial, and gendered.
When Frank attempts to rescue Cee from the doctor, there are limits to
how he can help. The difference between the comfort that he can keep

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giving her, and dependency that she eventually will no longer need, iscrucial. Cee learns to discern this difference through the affirming power ofEthel Fordham and the community of women around her. Their healingabilities thrive on living tradition and empathy, in a social space outside,and in opposition to the medical industry (122). Their methods draw on themusic of spirituals, gospel hymns, banjos, and mouth harps, bright sunshine, and knowledge of how to plant flowers that “protect vegetables from
disease and predators” (117). In effect, this nonviolent, but by no means
passive approach protects Cee from the predator of a doctor and the illness
he caused in the name of “the value of the examinations” (122).
The techniques Ethel and the other women choose are specific to Cee’s
condition, and she learns to heal herself as a woman in a space apart fromany man, including her brother. From the one girl who will talk to him,
Frank learns that the women “believed his maleness would worsen her
condition. She told him the women took turns nursing Cee and each had adifferent recipe for her cure. What they all agreed upon was his absencefrom her bedside” (119).
What the women also agree on is that Cee needs to learn to trust herself,
and they help her to do so through collective wisdom they pass on to her:“You ain’t a mule to be pulling some evil doctor’s wagon.”“You a privy or a woman?”“Who told you you was trash?”“You good enough for Jesus. That’s all you need to know.” (122)Their tactics evolve, moving from words to action that refuses victimizationin any form, whether personal, social, or societal:
Now they brought their embroidery and crocheting, and finally theyused Ethel Fordham’s house as their quilting center. Ignoring those who
preferred new, soft blankets, they practiced what they had been taught
by their mothers during the period that rich people called the Depression and they called life. Surrounded by their comings and goings,
listening to their talk, their songs, following their instructions, Cee had
nothing to do but pay them the attention she had never given them
before. (122)Frank and Cee, then, find home together and separately. Cee’s healing in
the company of women brings her to a place where she can accept the
comfort Frank offers without depending on him to be able to function in

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the world (131). In the final chapter, Cee and Frank stand together in a newsocial space that expresses their new, collective power: Cee’s quilt—which isuseful, and also symbolic of the community of women near and far away,
past and present—becomes the cover for the man to whom they give anhonorable burial. Frank writes “Here stands a man” (145) on the marker
they make for his grave; we now know that Frank is giving himself honor asa man, too. He has become a man who can express his strength without
resorting to violence. The tree’s stance is also a metaphor for his own andfor Cee’s achievement: It is “hurt on the inside but still strong and beautiful”(147). Cee has the final word of the novel, when she says, “Come on
brother, and let’s go home” (147). Here she reminds the reader of what
Frank yearned to accomplish from the moment he received the letter
warning that she was near death—to bring her home. But now it is Cee’s
power as a person and woman that gives her confidence, and the care, tolead her brother home.
This home is a specific one where inhabitants are strengthened through asocial space. It is both about being healed and continuing to heal the social,
as a man and as a woman. It is about moving forward together with theresilience and power of tradition, and with healing communities at theirbacks. The Home of the title has energy because, not in spite of illness,
oppression, and past mistakes. Home is also a quiet center, and it is amindset large enough to hold what Spivak calls the planetary, constructed
and then re-found (Spivak 73). Like the power of jazz, Morrison’s homecreates a momentum that unsettles even as it energizes, as it stays just a little
ahead of the familiar beat.

Works Cited
Bad Blood: The Tuskegee Syphilis Study. Claude Moore Health Sciences Library:
Historical Collections Online Exhibit. University of Virginia. 2007.
http://exhibits.hsl.virginia.edu/badblood/. N. pag. 8 September 2013. Web.
DuBois, W.E.B. The Souls of Black Folk. Rockville, MD: Arc Manor, 2008.
Forché, Carolyn, Introduction. Forché 29–47.
Forché, Carolyn, Ed. Against Forgetting: Twentieth-Century Poetry of Witness.
New York: Norton, 1993. Print.
Freud, Sigmund. “The Uncanny.” The Standard Edition of the PsychologicalWorks, tr. Alix Strachey et al. New York: Norton, 1961. Print.
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Levine, Peter. In an Unspoken Voice: How the Body Releases Trauma and Restores Goodness. Berkeley: North Atlantic, 2010. Print.
Lubiano, Wahneema, Ed. The House that Race Built: Original Essays by Toni
Morrison, Angela Y. Davis, Cornel West, and Others on Black Americans andPolitics in America Today. New York: Vintage, 1997. Print.
May, Elaine Tyler. Homeward Bound: American Families in the Cold War Era.
New York: Basic, 1988. Print.
Morrison, Toni. Home. New York: Knopf, 2012. Print.
—. “Home.” Lubiano 3–12.
—. Interview with Torrence Boone. Home Authors at Google. 27 February 2013.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pBDARw5fdrg. 8 September 2013. Web.
Noble, David. Death of a Nation: American Culture and the End of Exceptionalism. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 2002. Print.
Restrictive Covenants Database: Seattle Civil Rights and Labor History Project.
http://depts.washington.edu/civilr/covenants_database.htm. N. pag. 29 August 2013. Web.
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. Death of a Discipline. New York: Columbia UP,
2003. Print.
Welty, Eudora. “Place in Fiction.” Welty 116–33.
Welty, Eudora. The Eye of the Story: Selected Essays and Reviews. New York:
Random House, 1977.
Woolf, Virginia. A Room of One’s Own. New York: Harper, 1989. Print.

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Notes on Contributors

Lucy Buzacott is a PhD student at the University of Queensland, Australia,
in the school of English, Media Studies, and Art History. Her thesis
considers representations of mammy and belle figures in the novels of
William Faulkner.
Laura Castor is Professor in English literature and culture studies at the
University of Tromsø, where she teaches a graduate level course on Toni
Morrison. She has published extensively on Native American literature, and iscurrently working on a project that explores how collective memory of
trauma is expressed in fiction, poetry, and forms that cross genre boundaries.
Hilary Emmett is a Lecturer in the School of American Studiesat the
University of East Anglia. She is the author of articles on North Americanand Australian literature and culture including a chapter analysing therelationship between Morrison's Beloved and the myth of Medea. Her
articles on literary representations of race, settler colonialism and indigenous dispossession in Australia and the United States have appeared inWesterly, Common-place and in the forthcoming Oxford Handbook toCharles Brockden Brown.
Giulia Grillo Mikrut received a BA and a MA from Stockholm University.
Since 2009 she has been a PhD candidate in the School of English, Media
Studies, and Art History at the University of Queensland, Australia. In
2010, Grillo Mikrut organized the international Work-in-Progress postgraduate conference at the University of Queensland.
Anna Iatsenko holds a Licence ès Lettres in English, General Linguistics andComparative Literature and an MA in English literature from the Universityof Geneva. She is currently completing a doctoral thesis on the relationship151

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between music and language in Toni Morrison’s fiction and occupies aposition of teaching assistant.
Aoi Mori is a Professor of English at Meijigakuin University. She received
her Ph.D. in English from State University of New York, Buffalo. In 2004,
she spent a sabbatical year in African American Studies at Princeton
University. She is the author of several books including Toni Morrison and
Womanist Discourse.
Lynn Penrod is Professor of French in the Department of Modern
Languages & Cultural Studies at the University of Alberta in Edmonton,
Alberta, Canada. Her research and teaching focus on francophone women
writers (Hélène Cixous, Simone de Beauvoir, George Sand), translation
studies, French children’s literature, and the interrelationship between law
and literature. Dr Penrod is also a barrister & solicitor and lectures in the
Faculty of Law. She is the author of five books and numerous scholarly
articles and is a former President of the Social Sciences and Humanities
Research Council of Canada. Her most recent publications are an article on
using law as an approach to teaching George Sand’s Indiana, an article ontranslation of contemporary French women writers, and an essay on Dany
Laferrière’s trilogy for children. She is in the final stages of completing theEnglish translation of Hélène Cixous’s La fiancée juive.
Sangita Rayamajhi, PhD, is a Professor at the Asian University for Women,
an American University in Bangladesh. She teaches western and non-westernfictions, gender and sexuality, and theater. Recently she has co-authored abook Roles of Women in Asia, published by Greenwood. She is the recipientof National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH) Fellowship, Fulbright
Scholarship and Scholar Rescue Fund Fellowship (SRF).
Kerstin Shands is Professor of English at Södertörn University, Stockholm.
Among her publications are The Repair of the World: The Novels of Marge
Piercy, Embracing Space: Spatial Metaphors in Feminist Discourse, Collusion
and Resistance: Women Writing in English (editor), and Neither East Nor
West: Postcolonial Essays on Literature, Culture and Religion (editor).
Andrea Sillis is currently a PhD student at the University of Central
Lancashire, UK, having previously taken a BA in Russian and Philosophy at152

Keele University, UK, and an MA in Critical Theory and Modern Fiction at
Exeter University, UK.
Tuire Valkeakari is Associate Professor of English at Providence College,
Rhode Island, USA. She is the author of Religious Idiom and the African
American Novel, 1952–1998 (UP of Florida, 2007). Her articles haveappeared in Studies in American Fiction, Crossings, Atlantic Literary Review,
and Atlantis.

153

English Studies

1. Kerstin W. Shands (ed.), Collusion and Resistance: Women Writing in English, 2002
2. Kerstin W. Shands et al. (eds.), Notions of America: Swedish Perspectives,
2004
3. Kerstin W. Shands (ed.), Neither East Nor West: Postcolonial Essays on Literature, Culture and Religion, 2008
4. Kerstin W. Shands & Giulia Grillo Mikrut (eds), Living Language, Living
Memory: Essays on the Works of Toni Morrison, 2014

ENGLISH STUDIES

www.sh.se/publications
publications@sh.se

Living Language
Living Memory
Essays on the Works ofToni Morrison

Shands & Grillo Mikrut

Distribution:
Södertörns högskola
Library
SE-141 89 Huddinge

Living Language Living Memory

In 1993 Toni Morrison was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. The
Nobel committee described her work as “characterized by visionary
force and poetic import [that] gives life to an essential aspect ofAmerican reality.”
Twenty years later, a group of scholars met in Stockholm tocommemorate and celebrate Morrison’s award, and just as importantly,
to critically engage the wealth of scholarship that has sprung up
around Morrison’s work—both the six novels recognized by the Nobel
committee and those works of fiction and criticism published in thetwo decades afterwards.
The essays in this collection implicitly and explicitly take up
Morrison’s clarion call to vivify language. They engage her words byelaborating on their meaning, offering readings of her literary texts
that highlight their intertextuality, their proliferating conversations
with other texts and contexts, and even other languages. In some,Morrison’s words give life to authors no longer with us, in others weare encouraged to resituate her writing in unfamiliar contexts in orderto highlight the multiplicity of meanings generated by her work. The
essays offer rich testimony to the life-giving properties of Morrison’s
language and seek to contribute to the ongoing afterlife of her work byadding to the scholarly conversations animated by her extraordinary
literary career.

4

Edited by		

Kerstin W Shands
Giulia Grillo Mikrut		ENGLISH STUDIES 4